The First Failed Attempt to Euthanize Cooper

I have been avoiding writing this post since last Thursday. Mostly because it makes me sad, partially because I know when my mother reads this, (as she undoubtedly will) she will be very sad, and partially because I wanted to make sure I had enough time to really be able to get the point across of the sheer ridiculousness of the situation at hand.

My dog Cooper was found as a pup by a rescue agency on the side of the road. After three months or so, he still hadn't been adopted. One last ditch effort found Cooper at a Petsmart in Chesterfield Valley, where my recently divorced mother, my little brother and I happened to be passing through on our way to our Aunt Tracy's. We went into the Petsmart on a whim, not really expecting to find a dog, but there he was: all long legs and scared eyes and his tail tucked under. He came over and put his head between Mom's legs and we were sold... or he was sold, to us.

Nine years later, we still had our long legged, scared eyed, tail tucked under Cooper. He had gone from being a skinny little boy to a fat happy boy that loved squeaky toys, pineapple-pepperoni pizza, and bananas. We adored Cooper, and he was in puppy love with all of us.

It was only in the past few months that he seemed different. His usual routine, (because he was a very regimented dog) was to eat a mountain of food in the morning, and then again at supper time. Then he stopped eating as much, and then altogether.

We tried changing his food, finding softer foods, only giving him things he liked, but after three months he had lost almost forty pounds. He looked emaciated, with his ribs poking out and his spine visible all the way down his back. Even the fat on his skull had begun to diminish leaving his brow ridge protruding like a cave-dog's.

We finally agreed that it was time to put him to sleep when he stopped drinking water for two days. He couldn't get upstairs, he wasn't eating, his breathing was even labored.

Mom and I waited for Adam to get home, then we dragged him out from under the table, (since he couldn't even get up from that) and loaded him in the car, taking him to the vet's office. They put us in a special room, (forever seared in my mind as the Killing Room) and took Cooper away to put in a catheter. This was apparently going to help making the euthanasia get delivered faster. This was an incorrect assumption.

They brought Cooper back with a red armband on and asked us if we wanted some time with him. Part of me wanted to snap, "No, we've had nine years, Jesus Christ, we are here, this is really horrible, we don't need more time, we need to get this over with or I am going to fall into a million little tiny glass pieces, which for that stupid question, I hope you step on and get tetanus."

Instead I just shook my head and said, "You can send the vet in." For whatever reason I was making the decisions for the whole group. Mom was crying too much to talk, and Adam I think didn't want to be the bad guy saying, "Put this animal DOWN!"

Anywhose, the vet came in and then proceeded to explain how 'this' was all going to work. Apparently it wasn't going to be that peaceful. He was going to first get really confused, look around, then 'fall asleep.'

Here is instead what happened.

The vet took Cooper's skinny little arm and pushed the needle in. She started to depress the nozzle thing at the end, then said, "Oh, hum?" She then pressed harder.

And the pink shit exploded EVERYWHERE.

"Oh, my," she said, pulling the needle out. "I think this catheter is all clogged up. We are going to need to put in a new one."

"What, why?" I said.

Cooper was so incredibly dehydrated that his blood had actually clogged the catheter to the point of no return. I was almost like, "Fuck this we are taking him home." I mean, the euthanasia failed! That was a sign, right? It meant he was going to get better, he was going to start eating and feeling healthy and playing with his toys again, right?

Well, no, that it not what any of that meant. It really meant that he was just dying in his own way, and we humans were going to speed up the process by a few days, maybe a week.

So she took Cooper away and brought him back a few minutes later with a yellow and green armband on, assuring us that, "This one was flowing good."

Attempt number two was the one that did the trick. (Third time is not the charm).

She injected the stuff, and before she had gotten in even a third of it, he swung his head around once and then toppled over dead. His eyes didn't even close.

I wanted to get out of the room immediately. He was dead, therefore he wasn't Cooper anymore. It was just his body, his worn out, half starved body. And his eyes were still opened. I was done.

But the vet wanted to talk, and she tried to say nice things like, "If you guys need some time with him."

Oh, my God, it's not him anymore, please leave so that we can leave.

Finally she left, and I scooped up Cooper's collar and leash and left the hospital.

I was sad, heart-broken. And all I could see was his dead body in my mind. It was horrible, and mom was upset and I was upset.

Mom needed hugs, and I was willing to give her them, but my own grief has been and probably will always be to not be held while I cry. Instead I like to chew on a knuckle while I wait for my quiet sobbing to pass while I look out the window.

So I hugged mom while she cried, walked over to the car and did just that.

Adam drove us home, and I put on clean clothes and went to work with swollen eyes and a sore throat.

And that was the end of our little Cooper dog, who was a little bit like a live action Courage the Cowardly Dog.

Cooper: Horribly Unphotogenic, but Dearly Loved.