Saying Goodbye to Dusty

Our dog Dusty started throwing up in the early hours of Thursday 17 December. I called the vet as soon as the practice opened. I hoped she’d say it was a 24-hour bug and he’d be better soon. She told me to bring him in. As I walked him to the surgery, I couldn’t shake the feeling this was our last walk together. Covid precautions meant the vet came out to the car park to see him. She’d spent enough time with him to know he didn’t look right. He had to stay there for tests.

I went home alone and tried to get on with my work while waiting for news. She phoned me that afternoon with the X-ray results. They showed thickening of Dusty’s stomach wall - a sign of cancer. On the Friday, he was moved to another vet’s in Wokingham where further tests could be done. The biggest problem was that he refused to eat anything.

We went to visit him on Saturday morning. He was pleased to see us and came for a little walk round the car park. But we couldn’t get him to eat. My wife tried him with his favourite meat. He’d always loved licking cream off my finger, but wasn’t even interested in that. The Wokingham vet stayed upbeat and said it was worth continuing treatment. Late on Saturday, the night nurse called to say Dusty was having trouble breathing. She asked if we wanted him put into an oxygen tent, but warned it would be expensive. We agreed immediately. We weren’t going to count the pennies when it came to our little lad.

I spent a sleepless night with my phone beside me, expecting bad news to come through at any moment. On Sunday morning, we phoned the vet again, who said Dusty was breathing more easily and could carry on with treatment. In the evening, though, the vet’s tone changed. Dusty wasn’t eating. They’d tried many times to feed him with a tube, but he just threw up immediately. They kept him hydrated with a drip, but with no way of getting food inside him, he would starve. This could be a long and painful process, so it was time to let him go.

We had a melancholy ride over to Wokingham. Covid restrictions were relaxed and we were able to go into one of the consulting rooms, where Dusty was lying on a blanket on the floor. He tried to get up to greet us, but was too weak.

Ever since we got Dusty, I’d dreaded the prospect of one day signing his death warrant. How could I give someone permission to kill an animal I loved so much? I saw how weak Dusty was and how much distress was in his eyes. I signed the form with no hesitation. The vet left us alone with him. We stroked his head and told him how much we loved him. The vet came back in with a needle discreetly hidden in his hand. I looked at my wife, who nodded. “Let’s do it,” I told the vet. He found the vein in Dusty’s front leg and inserted the needle. He pushed the liquid in slowly. Dusty kept breathing for a long time and I found myself hoping he’d survive. Finally, all movement stopped. The vet put his stethoscope to Dusty’s chest and confirmed there was no heartbeat. He asked if we wanted to stay a bit longer, but Dusty had gone. The body on the floor wasn’t him. We thanked the vet for everything he’d done, wished him a merry Christmas, and went home.