I don't know how to put any of this in words. It hurts so much. This got really long, but I had to let it out somewhere and I feel like only you guys will fully understand- thank you if you read it.
I was reading other people's posts about putting their dogs down, and it seems like everyone's dogs were so old. 9, 10, 13, 15. He was only four and a half. If he were older, I would be at peace knowing he lived a full life. If he were younger, I wouldn't have gotten so deeply attached.
I got him when he was a few weeks old. He would have turned 5 this spring. He wasn't the healthiest puppy from the very beginning- I didn't know the full extent of it back then, but I don't regret choosing him regardless. His mother rejected him and he would have died if the breeder hadn't stepped in and fed him herself. Maybe the mother knew and that was natural selection playing its course.
Despite all that, you wouldn't have been able to guess he was sick up until his last week. He was always so happy and full of energy. It's bittersweet- if it were otherwise, I would have realized the severity of his condition and started proper treatment sooner. I could have given him a few more years. It was also such a shock, to see his condition decline so suddenly in a matter of days.
He passed away from kidney failure. I knew he had problems with his kidneys, we'd gone to the vet about it many times before. He would ask us to bring urine samples, prescribe a few days of shots and a week or two of pills, and afterwards his urine results would be better and we thought he was okay. We've gone through this process a couple times over the last 2 or so years, whenever he seemed less energetic or started throwing up, and he always got better after a week or so.
I thought this time would be like any other, but instead of getting better, he rapidly got worse. It quickly became apparent to me that the situation was really, really bad. I took him to just about every clinic in the city for every doctor's opinion, a lot of them didn't really give concrete information, just guesses and false hopes. I had a vet come do an ultrasound of his organs, and he couldn't even find his kidneys. Eventually he found a vague outline. They were that destroyed. My heart sank.
I knew then that there was nothing that could be done, but I still tried. Those last few days, I didn't sleep a single night. The days were filled with vet visits and the nights were filled with having him under an IV at home and making sure he didn't dislodge the needle in his vein (he hated it, I had to hold him down at times, I can't describe how awful it all was). The last night, I had rushed him to the only vet i could find in the city who was open overnight, and he asked me why I hadn't thought of taking bloodwork sooner, when his condition could've still been managed.
If only I had known. If only my vet had said anything. We did have his blood taken multiple times, but it was for other things. I could say I'm mad at my vet, but I honestly dont have the energy for anger right now. Just deep sadness. It should also be taken into account that at the moment I don't live in a country that has an advanced animal health care system like North America. That vet was recommended by friends and I trusted him. If I had gone to a different vet, one of the better ones that I found during his last week, I know this would have played out differently. They would have done more when I first came to the clinic two years ago worrying about his vomiting.
I can't only blame the vet, though. I could have done more. I could have pushed for more treatment, better treatment, switched vets. If you go back in my history, you'll find posts about me first considering getting a dog, and then posts of me always worrying about him like the over-concerned pet parent I always was. I tried to make his diet the best I could, I read up on homemade diets for kidney illnesses, I thought I was doing enough. I shouldn't have dismissed his lack of appetite the last month or two as simply him being picky (he really was always so picky about food, I had the breeder and trainers scold me about being too lenient with him. I thought I was doing a good thing, by not giving in when he decided not to eat something. I thought he just wanted something 'tastier' and everyone told me to show him some tough love and show him that he has to eat what he's given). Now I know he probably wasn't being picky. He just didn't feel good anymore. How am I supposed to not feel immense guilt about this? It kills me to know that his last few months were not good, but that he couldn't say anything and I didn't catch on quickly enough. There's no sugarcoating it: he relied on me, and I failed him.
The ultrasound doctor told me it was genetic, that purebred dogs often face these problems. It would have gotten him eventually, but I'll never forgive myself for not doing more sooner and ensuring him a longer life. There was really no reason for him to go so soon, other than negligence on multiple people's parts. I know there's no use torturing myself over this now, and I'm trying to focus on the positive. Four years are better than nothing. I love him with all my heart, and I tried to do what's best for him, I tried so hard to save him. I hope he knew that. And I'm so sorry.
On that last day, he still mustered up the energy to wag his tail a little, even though he could barely walk anymore.
The first time we met, he lay in my lap. In his last moment, he lay in my lap too. Rest in peace, my little angel.
I was reading other people's posts about putting their dogs down, and it seems like everyone's dogs were so old. 9, 10, 13, 15. He was only four and a half. If he were older, I would be at peace knowing he lived a full life. If he were younger, I wouldn't have gotten so deeply attached.
I got him when he was a few weeks old. He would have turned 5 this spring. He wasn't the healthiest puppy from the very beginning- I didn't know the full extent of it back then, but I don't regret choosing him regardless. His mother rejected him and he would have died if the breeder hadn't stepped in and fed him herself. Maybe the mother knew and that was natural selection playing its course.
Despite all that, you wouldn't have been able to guess he was sick up until his last week. He was always so happy and full of energy. It's bittersweet- if it were otherwise, I would have realized the severity of his condition and started proper treatment sooner. I could have given him a few more years. It was also such a shock, to see his condition decline so suddenly in a matter of days.
He passed away from kidney failure. I knew he had problems with his kidneys, we'd gone to the vet about it many times before. He would ask us to bring urine samples, prescribe a few days of shots and a week or two of pills, and afterwards his urine results would be better and we thought he was okay. We've gone through this process a couple times over the last 2 or so years, whenever he seemed less energetic or started throwing up, and he always got better after a week or so.
I thought this time would be like any other, but instead of getting better, he rapidly got worse. It quickly became apparent to me that the situation was really, really bad. I took him to just about every clinic in the city for every doctor's opinion, a lot of them didn't really give concrete information, just guesses and false hopes. I had a vet come do an ultrasound of his organs, and he couldn't even find his kidneys. Eventually he found a vague outline. They were that destroyed. My heart sank.
I knew then that there was nothing that could be done, but I still tried. Those last few days, I didn't sleep a single night. The days were filled with vet visits and the nights were filled with having him under an IV at home and making sure he didn't dislodge the needle in his vein (he hated it, I had to hold him down at times, I can't describe how awful it all was). The last night, I had rushed him to the only vet i could find in the city who was open overnight, and he asked me why I hadn't thought of taking bloodwork sooner, when his condition could've still been managed.
If only I had known. If only my vet had said anything. We did have his blood taken multiple times, but it was for other things. I could say I'm mad at my vet, but I honestly dont have the energy for anger right now. Just deep sadness. It should also be taken into account that at the moment I don't live in a country that has an advanced animal health care system like North America. That vet was recommended by friends and I trusted him. If I had gone to a different vet, one of the better ones that I found during his last week, I know this would have played out differently. They would have done more when I first came to the clinic two years ago worrying about his vomiting.
I can't only blame the vet, though. I could have done more. I could have pushed for more treatment, better treatment, switched vets. If you go back in my history, you'll find posts about me first considering getting a dog, and then posts of me always worrying about him like the over-concerned pet parent I always was. I tried to make his diet the best I could, I read up on homemade diets for kidney illnesses, I thought I was doing enough. I shouldn't have dismissed his lack of appetite the last month or two as simply him being picky (he really was always so picky about food, I had the breeder and trainers scold me about being too lenient with him. I thought I was doing a good thing, by not giving in when he decided not to eat something. I thought he just wanted something 'tastier' and everyone told me to show him some tough love and show him that he has to eat what he's given). Now I know he probably wasn't being picky. He just didn't feel good anymore. How am I supposed to not feel immense guilt about this? It kills me to know that his last few months were not good, but that he couldn't say anything and I didn't catch on quickly enough. There's no sugarcoating it: he relied on me, and I failed him.
The ultrasound doctor told me it was genetic, that purebred dogs often face these problems. It would have gotten him eventually, but I'll never forgive myself for not doing more sooner and ensuring him a longer life. There was really no reason for him to go so soon, other than negligence on multiple people's parts. I know there's no use torturing myself over this now, and I'm trying to focus on the positive. Four years are better than nothing. I love him with all my heart, and I tried to do what's best for him, I tried so hard to save him. I hope he knew that. And I'm so sorry.
On that last day, he still mustered up the energy to wag his tail a little, even though he could barely walk anymore.
The first time we met, he lay in my lap. In his last moment, he lay in my lap too. Rest in peace, my little angel.
