It
was 4:30 when we loaded our terrier, Buttons, into the car. A cold misty rain
fell, accentuating our dismal mood. My oldest, Rachel, clung to Buttons in the
front seat while Michelle and Stephanie sat soberly in the back. During the
forty-five minute drive, the winter sky darkened and the rain poured. A feverish Buttons twisted and turned in
Rachel's lap, periodically nestling his nose into her neck. Adjusting his
blanket like a mother tending her sick child, Rachel quietly wept, her tears
falling onto Button's tousled head. Staring straight ahead, I suppressed a
sob.
A melancholy foursome walked through the vet's
door. I approached the counter and told
the receptionist that we had a sick pup requiring immediate attention. The
nurse escorted us right back to an examining room. When the doctor came in,
Rachel placed Buttons on the table as we all gathered around to observe. She
stroked Button's stomach, while Stephanie patted his head. Michelle stood
aloof. I watched, my thoughts scrambling
for order and direction.
The vet felt all around Button's small bloated body,
starting at his head and working down to his tail. His temperature was 103 degrees.
After the customary tacit period of the exam, the vet took a deep breath and
spoke.
"Buttons may be suffering from some type of
intestinal blockage or tumor. We would have to perform more tests to determine
exactly what the problem is. Most likely surgery would be necessary."
I asked more questions to clarify the data, wanting to
make sure we understood before making a determination. In the intense pressure
of the moment, I knew I bore the brunt of any decision. I also knew the girls
were relying on me to do the right thing for Buttons. Looking around the room,
I studied each girl's face in hopes of finding an answer.
"Could we have a few minutes alone to talk about
this?" I asked the vet.
"Sure. Take as long as you need," he
responded, lowering his head and turning to leave.
As
the door closed, the girls and I stared at Buttons, then at one another. Rachel
and Stephanie continued to stroke Buttons. Michelle hung back. I wondered what
she was thinking and feeling.
"Well," I stammered. "We need to decide
what is best for Buttons now." I started to cry, which made Rachel and Stephanie cry more, while Michelle stood in her corner
observing the scene. "Buttons is in pain," I labored on. "He's
thirteen-years-old, has congestive heart failure, and now a new condition on
top of that. I think his physical problems are just going to get worse. Even if
we treat this one, it's only a matter of time before another ailment crops up.
We love him as our pet, but we need to use our best judgment."
Michelle spoke up
from her corner. "I don't want Buttons to suffer any procedures. He
wouldn't like that. He's been through enough."
I
glanced at Rachel and Stephanie for confirmation. They remained silent and
continued to stroke Buttons. I could tell from their demeanors that they knew
Michelle was right. They just couldn't verbalize it.
"Well,
then," I blurted, beginning to shake with emotion, clutching my sides in
hopes of gaining composure. "We'll let Buttons go."
Summoning the nurse from the next room, I told her we
were ready for the doctor. After a minute, he cautiously opened the door. With
downcast face, he approached the table.
"We've decided to let Buttons go." The words spilled from my mouth like water
from a faucet.
The
vet laid his strong, gentle hand on Button's side. Our dog that normally would
have scrambled to exit the room, lay still, his anxious brown eyes like wide
deep pools, searching ours.
"I
understand," the vet sympathized. Noticing our tears, he added, "I'll
give you a few more minutes with him." Fully aware that the decision we
had made was final, we sobbed, gasping for air with every breath, each in her
private world of pain, yet united.
We
gathered around Buttons talking to him as if he understood the import of the
moment. I lowered my head, closing my
eyes in silent prayer. At last, we called the doctor in. He filled the fatal
syringe as Stephanie stood crouched holding Button's head, sobbing and kissing
him and speaking to him with gentle reassurance. Rachel and I held each other while
Michelle stood against the wall, still observing without emotion. Struggling, I
released each girl to experience the hurt in her own way. I was thankful that
my teen girls were mature, able to understand the decision and work through the
pain.
Right before the injection, the vet again laid his hand
on Buttons and asked if he could say a prayer for us and our dog. Having
never received such a request from a vet before, I was surprised, but comforted
by his caring gesture. I heartily agreed.
"Dear Lord," he began, "please be close
to this hurting family and their beloved pet, Buttons. Comfort them in Your name. Amen."
I inwardly mused. How
like our precious Father to put a praying vet into our lives at just the right
moment when we needed a touch from His
hand. God was reassuring us that He who made all living things, who notices
when a tiny sparrow falls, also cared for our Buttons.
We
drove home in silence. Rain was still falling, but it couldn't equal the
torrent of tears we had shed. We arrived home with puffy, thick eyes and numb
hearts. I called my husband at work, sharing the details with him. Weeping, he
longed to be with us,
hold us, and share in our grief. I realized through
Button's death that my girls had learned a life lesson--letting go of someone
you dearly love and trusting God to take care of the pain. We would have
precious memories of Buttons to cherish through the years and God's comfort to
hold onto through the tears.
~~
Eileen Rife, author of Second Chance, speaks to women’s groups. Her three daughters are
now grown with families of their own. One of her chief joys is playing with her
six grandchildren who provided the inspiration for her upcoming gift book, Wit & Wisdom from the Wee Ones. www.eileenrife.com, www.eileen-rife.blogspot.com
