My Dog Died

As a board-certified hospice and palliative care physician as well as a medical oncologist with four decades of experience, I know firsthand the anguish of death. I have been at the bedside when patients were deteriorating. I heard their regrets and hopes and unfulfilled dreams. I witnessed family reunions and tears of forgiveness. I was there when thousands of patients took their last breath.

When a loved one is dying, family and friends experience what is called anticipatory grief. They prepare themselves for the ultimate outcome of a dread disease or organ failure, a tragic car crash or massive heart attack.

Yet some people are totally unprepared when the final event occurs. They can’t handle the tsunami of emotions and feelings. Some are never given time to anticipate the grief.

And this is what happened to Peggy and me. Let me explain.

I am a survivor of a dysfunctional childhood. Alcoholic parents. Multiple schools and many moves up and down the Eastern Seaboard. We were like an itinerant circus family following the thoroughbred racing circuit. I always had a pet. A dog or a cat was part of this bizarre entourage from Saratoga to Hialeah to Gulf Stream. My pets were my anchor to normalcy, as odd as that was.

In my adult life, I have had plenty of such anchors. One was McKenna, our beloved Golden retriever who came into our lives about five years ago.

She had the physique and the “attitude” to be a show dog but never really blossomed because of a vague abnormality in a hip x-ray. We rescued her, and she came to live with us, following in the footsteps of three-legged Brinkley (our therapy dog and Golden force of nature) and two sister cats. McKenna was a bundle of total love, total presence, and had an energy and vitality to bring peace and healing. Meticulous veterinary care was followed, and as of several weeks ago, she had a full checkup and everything was normal.

But tragedy struck like a lightning bolt.

At 1:30 a.m. on a bitterly cold Sunday morning during Christmas holiday week, she was restless, pacing. Instinctively, we knew that something was wrong. She was dead in thirty minutes. The ending was preceded by a grand mal seizure, which lasted for a few seconds.

We were beyond devastation, our souls shattered, our hearts broken. The suddenness, the lack of symptoms, unexpected, there was no forewarning. We were totally blindsided. Had she been ill, which was the case in many previous pets, we could have been emotionally and psychologically prepared that the end was coming. But we did not have that luxury in this case.

Her companion, our sweet Stevie, a Golden who is blind, lost her seeing-eye-dog friend. McKenna was Stevie’s eyes.

With the help of neighbors, we respectfully brought her to our local vet hospital and were met in the frozen parking lot by the professional staff. There was wailing, cries of despair, and hugs that seemingly lasted a lifetime. No one could speak through the gasps of sorrow. 

What we did not expect was the outpouring of cards, calls, flowers, and notes of condolence from throughout the country on our loss. We have been surrounded by the rhythm of caring and concern and compassion by a community of people who do understand that, even though we rescued that pet, yet, in fact, that pet really rescued us.

So we grieve, we stumble through the day in a fog. We get a lump in the throat when we see the chew toy, her food bowl, her collar and leash. Stevie searches for her friend. And like every pet owner who has said goodbye to an anchor, a friend, a companion whose love was unconditional, we are grateful for the time we had.

McKenna (right) with Stevie in this year's Christmas card photo by Ann Wagaman Photography.