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Mourning Jack

By Stacey Talarovich

May 7, 2009 | 12:00 a.m. CST

The stages of mourning apply to pets just as easily as they do to human family and friends. My black Labrador retriever, Jack, was 13 years old when he was put to sleep. Some owners say they would rather make the decision on their own instead of waking up to find out their pet has died during the night. In reality, knowing the day is coming doesn’t make letting go any easier.

Most Lab owners learn that Labs are prone to hip problems while their dogs are still puppies. Jack developed hip problems when he was 7 years old, but it didn’t show until he was about 10. When he was younger, he would dive off the back porch during winter and act like a bulldozer pushing the snow around with his nose. He didn’t dive anymore when he got older. We couldn’t afford to replace either of Jack’s hips, so he was given glucosamine and aspirin every morning and night. Because Jack had a hard time getting up stairs, my uncle Chuck built him his own handicap ramp on the front porch. Jack was still comfortable going down stairs, so he never learned to go down the ramp.

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One night when he was 12, I let him out the front door to mark his territory before I went to bed. He stopped at the top of the stairs as I walked down to the driveway. I begged him to follow me, but he just stayed there. He didn’t think he could make it down the stairs. That night I began the first stage of grieving: denial.

I tried to convince myself that he was just having a rough night and didn’t feel like going down the stairs. Jack had never learned to go down the ramp and I couldn’t teach him now. I never wanted to think about him being gone, but it hurt me more to think he couldn’t move. After 10 minutes, we went back into the house and I cried while he lay on the floor next to me. I knew his moods as well as my own; he didn’t feel any better than I did.

By the time Jack turned 13 in June, I noticed more gray hair in his face, paws and neck than before. In early October, Mom called me at school to tell me that Jack’s testicles looked abnormally large. There was a chance of cancer, which meant he should be neutered. Because of Jack’s age, the vet and my mom didn’t want him to have surgery, afraid he might not wake up from the anesthesia. I just wanted to be able to see my dog when I got home in November, so I started to cry and begged my mom to let him go into surgery.

Jack underwent surgery and came out fine. Personally, I felt guilty for having him neutered at his age, but I justified it by the fact that he was old enough and probably wouldn’t care at that point; I figured it would actually take some of the pressure off of his hips. Two weeks later my mom called again to tell me she couldn’t do it anymore; she couldn’t let him live like this. Jack’s esophagus was soft, which meant he had trouble eating. His bark was old and raspy, and his hearing was starting to go. Worst of all, his hips were so bad that he couldn’t stand for more than three minutes before he’d have to lie down — or fall down. This led me from denial into anger: stage two. She wanted to put my dog to sleep when I would be coming home in three weeks. I was angry that she wasn’t giving me the chance to say goodbye. I hadn’t seen my dog since August; I knew he was old and practically falling apart, but I just needed three more weeks. My bargaining (stage three) involved using my own pain and suffering to get what I wanted, which was to have my dog there when I got home. My mom said she didn’t think he could make it that long. In Jack’s mind he was still only 6 or 7 years old. His body disagreed.

I lost the bargain. On November 14, 2007, Jack was put to sleep. He was 13 and hadn’t seen me, his girl, since August. That’s when depression began. Stage four. I skipped my classes for the afternoon and lay in bed for hours in the dark with my stuffed black Labrador, a high-school graduation present from my friend Kim.

When I got home for Thanksgiving break, I walked into an empty house, and my sadness became a reality. Jack’s beds were gone and so were most of his toys. The only things left were some pictures, his food tower and his favorite toys. I grabbed “Moo-Cow,” lay down on the spot where Jack’s bed used to be and started to sob while trying to apologize to the dog I no longer had. “I’m so sorry!” I repeated over and over again while crying. I was angry and depressed. Angry at my mom for not being there when I got home and depressed that Jack wasn’t there either.

My mood got progressively better in the following weeks as I began to accept that keeping Jack alive for my own benefit wasn’t fair to him. I am still upset that I never had the chance to say goodbye to my dog, but I’ve accepted — stage five — that it was time for him to go. Now his ashes sit on the shelf in a silver tin with a dog guardian angel pendant on the top and his picture in front. I do still miss him every once in a while, especially when I see rambunctious Lab puppies that haven’t learned how to control their tails yet. Jack’s been gone a little over a year. My mom and I have considered getting another dog, but it’s not often a family finds a loving and loyal dog that can learn the names of its toys and not to eat the open box of dog cookies on the floor.

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