The Miles Spirit

I can still smell his fur, musky and sweet drifting up from the side of the bed. He used to come wandering into our bedroom at night, slowly guiding his body low to the ground, so that he could sneak in under our radar and perch himself in our room. He knew he wasn’t supposed to be there, yet he never failed to try to settle in as soon as we got into bed.

I miss him tremendously. It’s been two months since our Corgi pal Miles left this world and I can’t seem to shake him from my mind. You get used to the routines. Waking up and filling his dog bowl, watching him do a cannon ball belly roll on the throw rug after every meal. Jumping up and down at the door to go out when he was in good spirits.

I had to carry him up and down our apartment stairs this last year. It was hard work. The arthritis he had in both front and rear legs made it difficult for him to walk three flights. I would stare into his coal-black eyes and laugh at him saying “I hope you are grateful for me carrying you up and down these stairs dude”. He hung his head back, bouncing in time with the sway of our rhythm and oblivious to the effort it took. Once we reached the foyer, he would scamper to the door hobbling on three feet. His right foot was in a constant state of pain from the arthritis and he would keep it elevated when he walked. This made him look a bit like a prizefighter taking jabs in the air. Which is what the lil’ scrapper really was, having survived for eighteen years…

His strength and courage in his final days was confusing to me and our dog. He could on good days run a block up our 45 degree hill to our apartment without a stop. Other days, he would stumble over his rear legs, crossing them uncontrollably and tripping on them until he fell to the ground. When he would fall, he would stare at me with weary eyes perplexed as to why his body was giving out.

I would pet him to coax him for reinforcement up the hill and gently guide him with a boost of my foot until he gathered his strength to continue. He would slowly rise and take a few steps and stop. I knew then that his health was going downhill, but I figured getting him to slug it out on the climb would somehow prolong the inevitable. Like people, dogs who live with humans for long periods of time become invisible to our death radar. They are master manipulators on hiding pain and suffering. Which leads us to go about our lives fantasizing how their health will improve with diet, drugs and love. Only to find ourselves unprepared when it comes time to deal with end of life issues for our pets.

Our routine walks began to dwindle down to a half a block after the years of arthritis had ravaged his body. We were giving him pain medication and salmon oil which helped for awhile, but we noticed a big decline in his attitude and strength the last few weeks of his life. This is when my wife decided to make an appointment at the vet for a check up and to discuss possible end of life consultation.

The day we took Miles to the vet will be etched forever. On our walk that morning, he could barely make it up the hill and when he finally reached our apartment he fell to the ground and refused to get up. I had to carry him up the street and into our apartment. The night before, he was wandering around the house in a state of confusion for hours, whimpering in pain. Earlier that same day he had soiled our dining room in front of my wife, both peeing and pooping on the floor. This was not the same stoic and proud dog we had in our home for eighteen years. We knew something was wrong and we began to brace ourselves for what the vet would say.

We packed Miles into the car and when we arrived at the SFSPCA parking lot, he looked exhausted and refused to walk. I once again had to carry him to the clinic waiting room, petting him and asking him “what’s wrong buddy?” along the way. How I wished dogs could speak. He sat by our feet in the waiting room next to another dog who wanted to visit. Normally Miles would be all over the other dog, sniffing and wanting to play. Not this time. He lay there oblivious, panting heavily. Did he know?

The floor staff at the SPCA recognized Miles and they came over to pet him. They loved him and his rock star persona, having stayed there many nights when we boarded him. He was one of the staffs favorite dogs. The vet looked him over as we discussed the health issues he was having. Miles didn’t flinch when he got the rectal thermometer which which a first. I knew that he was down and out when he didn’t even fuss, or try to get down off the examination table. When we told the vet about the issues of having to carry him every where and his incontinence, she suggested that we might consider a harness and a diaper. Even though these were grateful gestures, the thought of having to carry him everywhere we went in diapers somehow didn’t seem like a good quality of life for a dog used to running the roost.

I was prepared to go along for the ride, living in denial and offering to do the job. My wife looked at me with sadness in her eyes and I knew what she was going to say. It finally registered with me that he was not fit to carry on with such pain. I looked at my pal in a state of shock, realizing that this was going to be his last day on the planet and tears began to well up in my eyes. My wife and I both gave him treats as we spoke with the vet about the procedure to put him to sleep.

It was very difficult emotionally to end his life. He was like our child and if he were human, on his way to college. Funny how close we get to our pets. The vet hugged and petted Miles and told him that he had a good long life. She knew that it was coming to an end, which helped us with our painful decision. When the vet left the room to gather the instruments for the procedure, Miles perked up and became more cognizant of his surroundings. My wife and I both looked at each other and panicked at his surge of energy. “Did we make the right decision?” we asked ourselves. We both thought it over again and discussed that he was not capable of walking and that it was only going to get worse as time marched on. We didn’t want to see him suffer in this condition and we stood by our decision. It wasn’t until later that we learned dogs will fake their not feeling pain out of necessity to avoid being left from the pack. Which explains Miles sudden sense of awareness.

The vet returned with a catheter and began to shave Miles left leg where the injection would be administered. My wife and I began to tear up watching what would his last moments on Earth. She guided us to the SPCA’s grieving room where we could spend time with him alone and say our last words. We both agreed that this was one of the most difficult days we have had in our twenty years together, as we wished our pal a safe journey to the other side. We sat silent in our thoughts petting Miles as the vet walked in and asked if we were ready.

We went over the options for cremation and chose not to be there for the final injection. That would be too hard for us to bare. We said our final farewells and left the clinic sad and in shock. A rush of emotions ran through me on the way to the car. “Couldn’t we carry him in a sling and diaper until he died a natural death?” I kept questioning myself. I was prepared to make the sacrifice in swap of not having to face the guilt of choosing to end our dogs life. Which of course is selfish. Our dog was in pain, having no control over his legs and body functions. Who was I to let him suffer…

These feelings and emotions seem to happen to everyone I spoke with who has had to put their dog to sleep. Our conscience is fueled by the desire to survive at all costs, which is counterpart to ending an animal’s life. We ravaged through weeks of sadness and guilt whenever we thought of Miles and or, saw another dog on the street. “It wasn’t fair that he was gone” I kept saying to myself, yet we both knew that eighteen years of age for a dog is way above average. Whenever my negative emotions would well up again, I would remember what the vet said to us at the clinic, “Miles had lived a long life in a loving home we created for him”. This brought comfort to me, but it didn’t help from seeing and feeling his presence for months after he was gone.

There were many nights that I could have sworn that Miles was lying down by the side of my bed. I would awaken to a noise in our apartment that reminded me of him scurrying about at night. I would lean over to the side of the bed where he sometimes slept and reach down to pet him. Even though he was not there physically, I could swear that I felt his energy. Our bedroom door actually creaked one time when I awoke to see if he was there, as if someone had walked out of the room.

He continues to appear in my mind as I walk along the street where his ghost haunts the alley-ways and trees that he marked in and around our San Francisco neighborhood. There hasn’t been a day when I haven’t thought about our walks we shared. These are wonderful memories that I will always cherish, along with all the smile’s he brought to everyone’s face he met.

He was truly a beautiful dog whose personality was larger than life. I honor his spirit with a song I wrote for him when he was a pup, his cute doggie strut the inspiration behind the song. The lyrics in the chorus sum up Miles and our love of dogs best, “We all know that you’re our best friend, sunshine daydreams until the end”…

Listen to the “Hey Little Doggie” song here.