Some Soul Dogs Do Their Best Work From Afar

I've spent most of my adult life caring for other people's dogs. I know the particular love that lives in that work — and I know the particular grief that follows it. His name was Chance. He was seventeen and a half years old, and for most of those years, he was the first thing I saw in the morning and the last thing I checked on at night. This is the story of losing my own, and everything I learned along the way.

I keep rehashing the last 72 hours of my sweet boy's life. It's an obsessive loop that has been running through my mind for the last several months. And from what I have read about grief, very common. I have been assured by my veterinarians, friends, and family that it really could not have gone any more perfectly. In my heart I know it happened just as we had hoped — but could I have done anything more to make him comfortable? Could I have been any more present for him? Did I miss something in the last few weeks? Did he need something from me? Did he suffer?

Weeks prior I had climbed into Chance's dog bed while he was resting, held him tight, and asked him to do this painlessly by himself, when he was ready. Or at the very least make it crystal clear to me that it was his time. I couldn't face the fear I had of having to make the choice for him. I felt a bolt of energy move through the inside of his body, from the tip of his tail to the top of his head, as if he was recalibrating his plans.

His legs had been starting to fail the last month or so, but his mind and spirit were still so very strong. In fact, the Monday before he passed, I witnessed him muster the strength to do a lap around the yard he knew and loved so much — a lap he hadn't done in almost a year. I've heard there can be a surge of energy during the process of death, a moment where one feels most alive suddenly. One of the terms for it, in humans, is "rally." Perhaps that was his rally.

We had upped our PT sessions with our acupuncture and PT vet, Dr. Heather, to twice a week for the last month to see if we could alleviate any discomfort and even get him moving better again. We succeeded for the most part, until the last two weeks, when those back legs were just not interested in working on their own. I knew the time was getting near, but how near I think caught all of us a little off guard. We had a session with Dr. Heather that Tuesday. I asked her to check his pulse and his gums, as something seemed off to me the evening before. At that time, he was fine.

By Wednesday evening it was clear to me that something wasn't right. He hadn't had much interest in food or water that day, and he could barely muster the strength to sit up. We had an existing PT appointment at 8 am the next morning, so I waited out the night with one eye on my boy and not one hour of sleep for myself. That night he didn't particularly seem like he was in terrible pain, but on occasion he would let out one bark — not a yelp, as I had known pain to sound in dogs, but rather just one bark, every so often, almost as if he was calling out for me, or maybe even for his best friend Bosco, who had passed a few years prior. When Dr. Heather arrived the next morning, she confirmed it was best to take him into the vet clinic he had known for almost the full 17.5 years of his life. There he could receive some fluids and perhaps some medication to help whatever might be ailing him. His vitals were still stable.

He loved his vet, Dr. George, and as luck would have it, Dr. George had a cancellation and was able to squeeze him in that morning. Dr. Heather helped me carry Chance to the car and gave me a hug. We were early, so rather than sit in the parking lot I decided to take Chance on a drive down by the water. Palisades Park had been his favorite place to walk for most of his life. He used to whine and cry with excitement as we approached our usual parking spot. I rolled down the windows and watched in the rearview mirror as his eyes opened and his nose began to gently sniff the warm, clear air coming through. We did one slow drive around the park and headed back to the vet.

While waiting for the vet tech, I climbed in the back of the car and held Chance in my arms as he looked up at me. I gently told him not to worry. I promised him we would still be together no matter what happens, and that I would be okay if he wanted to move on. I promised. I told him I would miss being able to snuggle him and give him kisses right above his nose, but that I had no doubt he would always be walking right beside me. "Some soul dogs do their best work protecting and guiding their people from afar," I whispered as the vet tech approached.

"Oh no, what happened Chance?" Dr. George exclaimed. Chance had always been a bit of a celebrity at the vet clinic because of his ability to power through whatever was ailing him and keep chugging along well into his 17th year. I was clear that it felt like we were most likely nearing the end this time, but that I didn't want it to happen today, and I didn't want it to happen there, at the vet, if I could help it. I truly think some dogs don't care where they pass, and some dogs obviously don't have a choice — but I think Chance wanted to be home, with me. I wanted Chance to be home. Chance and I stared at each other as the vet tech picked him up and carried him into the back.

Dr. George and I decided to run some tests — an ultrasound and bloodwork — so we could better understand what was happening inside my boy. I've always been someone who wants to know, if possible. Having pet health insurance meant cost wasn't a barrier to that clarity, and I'm grateful for it.

I went home for an hour, took the tiny Oz — a dog that was staying with me — around the block, grabbed a snack, and went back to the vet. I didn't feel a rush of anxiety, but rather a calm daze, the same calm daze I have felt when something greater than me is happening, the same calm daze I felt the day I adopted Chance.

Chance's kidneys were struggling, and it looked like the small, presumably cancerous spots inside his body had grown a bit over the last three months, and he had some swollen lymph nodes near the base of his spine. In all my focus on his mobility issues, had I forgotten that he had cancer growing inside? We had opted not to biopsy anything back in June because of the invasive nature of that procedure on such a super geriatric pup. We weren't going to treat cancer at that stage of his life, but rather chose to keep him as comfortable as we could. I did notice that the subcutaneous hemangiosarcoma on his leg had suddenly come back a month prior, after what we thought was a successful surgery two years ago.

We discussed our options. Take him to the ER for fluids and supportive care, or take him home and take it day by day, with a vet tech coming to the house daily to give fluids. Perhaps he would work through this acute situation as he had always done before, and we could have a little more time together. If we didn't see enough improvement within a few days, it was time to consider humane euthanasia, Dr. George said. They gave Chance a round of fluids and medications to support some of the symptoms he was having, told me to continue with the pain medications he had been on this last year of his life, and we went home.

I carried Chance inside by myself. Somehow in that moment I had developed superhuman strength, carrying his 65-pound body with ease, overriding all the back problems I had developed over the years walking multiple dogs at a time. I'll deal with that later, I thought to myself. I gently laid him in his dog bed and gave him a long snuggle before scheduling a vet tech to come in the morning to check on him and give him a second round of fluids.

My good friend Lara, who also happens to be an exceptional massage therapist, was already planning on coming over that evening to work on my aching back. "We are both exhausted," I texted her, "but he would be very happy to see you." "Auntie" Lara was one of his most favorite people in his life, and one of the few people I relied on to take care of him when I traveled. I ordered some pizza for us. As it so happens, pizza crust was one of Chance's favorite special treats.

Something told me that the small dog staying with us needed to go somewhere else. While I wasn't sure yet of what was going to happen that night, I knew in that moment the night needed to be just about us. After texting with his mom, we agreed it would be best if he went to his back up plan for boarding. When Lara arrived, I asked her to sit with Chance as I ran this pup down the street.

"He heard you parking the car and perked up a bit," Auntie Lara said as I opened the door. That night we sat with Chance and ate our pizza. I offered him his favorite crust. He refused. A good, longtime client reached out and asked if she could come by with her pup Rosie to see Chance. I was supposed to have picked up Rosie for daycare earlier that day but had told her Chance was sick and I didn't want to leave him alone. Just two months prior, I had sat with her family as the end-of-life vet tended to Murray, her older dog, who had suddenly fallen ill with heart failure at 14.

We all had a glass of wine while sitting with my boy. Rosie circled him, gave him a sniff, wagged her tail passionately, and moved away from him, glancing over every so often — the same ritual she had performed around Murray the night we said goodbye. The mixture of exhaustion and grief was beginning to catch up with me. We said our goodbyes. I got ready for bed and moved Chance into the bedroom so we could go to sleep. "Mommy needs to get some sleep," I told him, and tried to shut my eyes. But by 11:30 pm Chance had started to show signs of discomfort — a little moaning here and there, a whine every so often. Similar to the sounds I heard sitting with my grandmother the night before she passed. Not particular sounds of pain, but rather, I imagine, the sound of being uncomfortable in your body as if you are trying to break free.

I got down on the floor with my boy as it had become clear to me that something was shifting within him. Was he making the choice to leave? If he was unable to do this himself, I thought — as a panic began to creep in — I would call someone to come to the house first thing in the morning, as the last thing I wanted was for my boy to suffer, as far as I could help it. I got a cool washcloth and gently wiped his face, his eyes, his nose, and the drool that was beginning to form on his lips. I had no idea if that would feel good to him, but I had sat with enough humans during their last days that I thought — isn't this what you do when someone is sick?

For some reason I thought he might be more comfortable back in the living room. A few months prior I had rearranged the bedroom and his bed was now facing a different direction — I don't think he liked that very much, as he could no longer keep one eye on me from the bedroom while I sat on the couch in the living room, as he had always done. The living room was more spacious. He was positioned to see the comings and goings, to smell the kitchen, and it was where he spent most of his time. I gently moved him, still in his dog bed, back into the living room.

I sat on the couch and put New Girl on the TV. New Girl is like comfort food to me. It got me through the pandemic, times of stress, sickness, and exhaustion. Sometimes I leave it on for the dogs when I leave the house. The pure mindlessness and silliness keep me calm and in joy. Besides, I couldn't go to sleep now — what if my boy needed me. Within the hour Chance started showing discomfort again, so I turned off the TV, pushed the spare dog bed up to Chance's bed, and lay down next to him to comfort him and stroke his fur. "Whatever you need to do, my sweet, best boy," I whispered. "I'm right here."

I woke up a few hours later holding tight to his paw as my sweet boy took his last breath, his body one final, big stretch. I released his paw and put my hand on his side. "Did you do it? You did it, my brave boy," I whispered to him, and kissed his forehead. "Good boy." The sense of peace, calm, and warmth in the room was vibrant. I checked the time. 4:27 am.

I cleaned up my boy. The natural changes that occur as the body relaxes and releases during the process of death can be messy, and even though I knew his spirit had moved on, I had a deep, almost compulsive desire for him to be presentable for his aftercare. I still can't shake the feeling that I didn't get him clean enough. I opened the sliding glass door and moved him, in his bed, closer to the fresh air. I grabbed his favorite blanket — what I called his travel blanket, as it had accompanied him almost everywhere he went for most of his life. In his younger years he used to gently nibble on it, out of what I assumed was anxiety, displacement, or simply self-soothing behavior.

I remember back in 2016, the two of us flying to Seattle to join my family in spreading my father's ashes. My father had always wanted to meet Chance in life, and on his deathbed, I remember him asking me faintly, "Is Chance here?" In my rush to be by my father's bedside I had left Chance with the sitter, so after my father's passing, I thought it would not only be emotional support for me to have Chance there, but a symbolic gift for my father. That trip was the first and only time Chance traveled by plane. He quietly lay beneath my feet and nibbled gently on his blanket the entire trip, only sitting up and scooting closer to me as the plane came in for a landing. "Did you train him to do that?" the passenger sitting next to me asked. "That's all him," I replied.

I placed his travel blanket partially covering his body and turned the coffee pot on.

The year prior I had thought to compile a list of recommended end-of-life, in-home veterinarians to anticipate my clients' needs — and perhaps, quietly, my own. Through that process I had reached out to a vet friend: what do you do if your pet passes away on their own? Do you just take them to the vet? I combed through my emails and found Jane. Jane from VIP Mortuary would come to your home and transport your pet to aftercare cremation. I emailed Jane and sat on the couch and stared at my boy. Was I supposed to cover his head with the blanket? Is that what you do? The sun would come up soon and I didn't want to traumatize any neighbors who might walk by and glimpse into my apartment, so I got back up and gently covered his head. That didn't feel right either.

Jane called me around 6:15 am. "How are you holding up? You are in luck — I get up early and take my dogs for a walk." She went over the specifics of what the aftercare cremation would entail and what was included in the cost: the cremation remains, a digital paw print, a nose print, a lock of hair, and if you wanted anything extra you could choose from the menu on the website. I wanted all of it. She works with Honor Pet, a veterinarian-run company in Los Angeles that does aqua cremation. She assured me that they take great pride and great care in the process. They exceeded my expectations.

Jane had come highly recommended by my vet friend who had known her for over a decade. "If Dr. Lindsey trusts you, I trust you," I said. "I don't have any of my helpers today, so I would need your help transporting him on the stretcher to the car — and I don't know if that would be traumatizing for you," she said. "Honestly, it's really just been the two of us all these years, and I think that might be therapeutic for me in some way. I wouldn't have it any other way." "I have to pick up a potbellied pig in Hancock Park at 9:30, so I can come for Chance sometime between 8 and 9 am," Jane said. "Does Chance get to ride with a potbellied pig?" I giggled, through my mixture of shock, sadness, and fatigue. "He loves animals — he would totally love that." "Sadly, no," she said. "He would be dropped off at the mortuary first."

I took a shower, made a piece of toast, and sat back down on the couch and stared at my boy. Should I remove the blanket from his face? It just didn't seem right to keep him covered — he was free to soar now. But the combination of grief, fatigue, and overwhelm had set in, and I just couldn't muster the strength to get up again. I composed a text to all who knew and loved him: "In his final act of bravery, my sweet boy passed away at 4:27 am with me holding his paw."

My sister FaceTimed me from her vacation with tears streaming down her cheeks. We had a good, long cry. "I can fly down Monday and be with you for a few days. Can I see him?" I turned the phone so she could see where he was resting. "I covered his face, sorry."

"Oh," Jane said after she arrived, before asking if she might remove the blanket from his face so she could see him. "Aww, he's so beautiful. So unique." It was then that I realized how peaceful he looked. He had passed with both his eyes and mouth closed, as if he had gently drifted away in his sleep. I had known both humans and animals to pass with eyes and mouths wide open, which adds a startling quality to an already tender moment.

"Can I send his travel blanket with him?" I explained that it was his special blanket, that it kept him safe and had traveled with him on every journey. "Of course you can, but unfortunately he can't be cremated with it — it's aqua cremation. I can bring it back to you when I return his remains in about ten days. The only thing he can be cremated with is a note. Would you like to write one to send with him?" I could sense Jane was running short on time, with the vet across town and the potbellied pig waiting. I quickly wrote Chance a note and tucked it in his blanket: "You will always be my sweet, sweet, handsome boy, no matter where you are."

I helped Jane transport him to the car. After giving him one last kiss above his ear, I thanked Jane, stood for a moment with my boy, and went inside. As wonderful as Jane was, the feeling of handing him off to someone I didn't know was a surrendering I had never experienced before.

I cleaned the house. I vacuumed, steam cleaned, and did laundry. I didn't get rid of anything of Chance's, but I felt a strong need to clean and organize it all. By 10 am the condolences started rolling in. "He made his choice, it was his time." "What an incredible life." "I'm so sorry."

"I'm so sorry," Georgie's mom texted. "Georgie has barely moved the last 24 hours. He's been staring out the window — he just seems so very sad. I think he must already know." I had been worried about how Georgie would respond when Chance passed. I had been caring for Georgie for most of his 13 years. He is a very sweet but anxious goldendoodle, and he had always relied on Chance for emotional support. If Chance wasn't right there with him when he was staying with us, Georgie would cry and bark. If Chance was there, he was fine. Not only did Chance regulate my nervous system — it seems as if he regulated the nervous systems of many of the dogs we cared for as well.

Dr. George called around 10:30 am. I had canceled the appointment with the vet tech and let her know Chance had passed. I asked her to tell Dr. George. "I hoped we might have a little more time with him," he said. "Me too." "He had an incredibly long life for a dog his size. It just happens sometimes. We can't be 100% sure what caused the decline — he did have quite a bit going on inside — but it seems it was just his time."

Chance had always been a man about town, and when those back legs really started giving out less than two weeks prior, I was punched in the gut with the feeling that this would be the defining factor that crushed his spirit. On Dr. Heather's advice, she suggested getting him a stroller so he could still get out in the world and ride out his last days in style. So, of course, I did. I couldn't quite tell if he took to it — part of me thought he was confused by it, and the other part thought he might be enjoying the newfound freedom. My friend said the first thing she thought of when I told her he had passed was that he had seen that stroller and said to himself, "Hell no. That is not my jam. I'm out of here." We only got three strolls in before he died.

Gillian reached out. "Dang it. I was hoping he could hold on at least until this afternoon. I received a strong message from him last night that his spirit was ready to go, but his physical body wasn't, and he needed to clear something he was holding onto."

Gillian is an animal communicator that Chance, as well as several of my clients, had worked with over the years. I don't know how she does it, but somehow she is able to tune into what they need both emotionally and physically. With her guidance we have helped dogs out of the ER when the vets were considering euthanasia, stabilized dogs who struggled with disease, and found the right foods for pups with sensitive tummies when nothing else seemed to be working. She is clear that she is not a medical professional — she simply passes on the information she receives, and we do with it what we please. "We can still clear this when you are ready. Can you chat later today? I need to go check on my horse, but after that I'm free."

"The intensity of the love I am feeling surrounding Chance is hard to describe," she said. "It's incredibly beautiful. He needed to clear something for you before he passed. He was worried about the intense feeling of loneliness you would feel without having his physical presence with you. We can still clear it now. He also wants you to let go of anything you felt like you should have done for him, or felt like you didn't do for him. He is free now. None of that matters." And then, out of the blue: "Also, something about your sister? He is happy that your sister is coming to be with you."

After my session with Gillian I ordered some food, lay down on the couch, and turned New Girl on. Ten hours later I woke up, turned the TV off, and checked the time.

4:27 am.