On death and dying...

Today, I called the Vet in. I hated making the call, as making it was a confirming action that spelled acceptance of the inevitable; the inevitable being the approaching death of my Deer Hound, Ellie. Ellie had reached 11 years and 9 months of age - old for her breed - and was clearly uncomfortable with life. Ellie was already suffering from degenerative arthritis in both of her back legs and her lower back and she had suspected liver problems too. Her medication had helped to make things a lot easier but over the last couple of weeks her decline was noticeable and last night she became ill and had a look about her that said 'I'm just plain worn out'. Today, the Vet confirmed that Ellie had a very high temperature (42 and rising, instead of the normal 38) and that it was probable that this was linked to a growth in her liver. We had also noticed that she was dragging one of her rear paws which suggested that she was losing control of her legs and so, it was very clear, that for Ellie, the time had come to stop her suffering and say goodbye; such a painful thing to do. We could have opted for pain relief and infection control by way of steriods and antibiotics but this action would not have restored her leg functions and it would only serve our own selfish needs and not those of Ellie's. Ellie died in our garden on a sunny autumn day - a garden where she had spent many hours snoozing, usually with one eye open.