Tyler, 2011-2022 | Andokides' Porch

Tyler, March 1, 2011-May 19, 2022

I don’t know how to name it. We did not “have to put Tyler down”; there was nothing compulsory in what we did, and Tyler was already “down.” We did not “put Tyler to sleep,” and since I’m not at all certain there is an “other side,” I cannot say we “helped Tyler cross” to it. “We helped to release Tyler from this corporeal world, this ‘mortal coil,’’’ is too cumbersome and clumsy. With the vet’s assistance, we helped Tyler let go; that’s the best I can do.

About three months ago, Tyler had a tumor removed from under the shoulder of one of his front legs. A biopsy showed it was malignant. The vet was confident that they had gotten all of the tumor, but was not optimistic about its spread or about future occurrences. In the way that gradual changes cumulate and sneak up on those who watch them at close range, Tyler’s energy began to change in the weeks after the surgery. There were sparks of his old self — he loved to chase after light and shadow, the shimmers created by the refraction of light through glass; his tail would gyrate at high speed like a hummingbird’s wings; he would growl and pace, and then, when the tension had hit the breaking point, he would lunge forward, barking wildly; he could get uncontrollably excited at the prospect of treats or a ride in the car — but, with the benefit of hindsight, there were also signs that he was slowing down. He was eleven years old.

Bill was away at a conference for the weekend. Tyler was a little mopey, but that’s been his habit, for three years or more now, when one of us is gone. Tyler enjoyed having two daddies. Immediately on Bill’s return from his conference, we were leaving for a week on St George Island (Florida) with friends, an annual event we’ve participated in before. With the visit by the dog sitter on Wednesday, followed by Bill’s departure on Friday, followed by the appearance of my duffel bag on Saturday night, Tyler knew something was up, so we weren’t terribly concerned when, as we left on Sunday, he seemed a bit lethargic, maybe depressed.

Monday, the dog sitter called. Tyler was ill. He was vomiting and drinking lots of water; he was listless; he wasn’t eating. Bill, thinking Tyler may have gotten sick from drinking water out of the plant pots on the patio, decided we should monitor the situation for 24 hours and decide what to do based on where things were then. Tuesday morning, Tyler was still sick. The dog sitter had other commitments for the morning, but took him to the vet Tuesday afternoon. The vet’s diagnosis was pancreatitis. Tyler was put on an IV drip to try to get him hydrated and get his blood sugar up, and stayed overnight at the animal hospital. Wednesday morning, Tyler still hadn’t snapped out of it as the vet had hoped; he was still listless, not eating, and his liver and kidney functions were way off base. When the vet called again Wednesday afternoon, he said plainly that he was not hopeful.

Bill and I were scheduled to stay on St George until Sunday, but when Tyler had to go to the animal hospital, we had already begun to plan for an early departure. First, we were thinking Friday; then we began thinking Thursday. After the Wednesday afternoon call with the vet, we began to think we needed to go home right away. It was already 4 in the afternoon. Bill wondered how quickly we could get packed and get on the road. He wondered if we had the stamina for the six-hour drive. We decided we had to get home to see the boy, to be with him, maybe to urge him on, to rally him. At the very least, we couldn’t risk letting him die alone at the hospital, feeling that he had been abandonedl With the help of our friends at the beach house, we were packed and out the door in just under 30 minutes. We made good time, arriving back home around 11 o’clock.

In the morning, we went to see Tyler at the animal hospital. They brought him into an examination room and put him on the table. He was clearly happy to see us, giving both of us puppy kisses, but he was very subdued; there was no tail wagging or joy jumping.
Creatinine, BUN, and liver function levels were not moving in tandem as they should have been, but heading off in all directions. Tyler’s body was breaking down its own proteins, probably the cancer. He had been despondent and lethargic. The vet said his prognosis was not good.

Without anyone asking or answering the question aloud, we decided it was the right thing to do to let Tyler go. He might have held on for some little time more, but that would have been for us, not for him. For Tyler, it would have been a struggle, something he would have endured only because he loved us. Despite the fleeting glimpses of his healthy self, the Tyler we loved so much was already gone. Bill asked if “it” could be done at home. The vet graciously said he could come by the house around lunchtime.

We brought Tyler home around 9:30, and the three of us went out on our patio, a place Tyler dearly loved. He drank some water and showed flashes of enthusiasm when presented with some treats — because of a food allergy, he hadn’t had real treats for a month or so; we had been using his prescription kibble as treats, and Tyler gamely played along, but he was not fooled — but mostly, he just laid on the patio, sniffing, reading what was on the breeze, enjoying the sunshine warming the still cool morning. Bill and I sat on the patio with him, stroking him in all his favorite places — his chest, his ears, his butt right at the tail joint, under his chin. Tyler, just as in earlier times, would use his nose to nudge us to a new location or to signal that, our view notwithstanding, we were not finished. The ears perking, the careful attention to where additional treats might be coming from … it all seemed so much like the healthy puppy we knew and loved, it was tempting to engage in magical thinking: if we just carry on and love him, and continue to nurture him, we can beat this thing.

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The vet and his assistant arrived around noon. Bill and Tyler had moved inside to the office they shared, Tyler at his post, at Bill’s feet under Bill’s desk. Tyler struggled up to bark at the intruders, but moved without protest to his bed in the office. He already had a catheter from his time on IV drip, so it was easy for the vet to administer the drugs while Bill stroked Tyler. It was quick; it was peaceful; it was on terms we chose; Tyler was ready to go; he never appeared to suffer or to be in pain; he was just tired, worn out.

We’re confident it was the right thing to do, and we think we did it in the best possible way, but those things don’t make the pain any less, the sense of grief less intense, or the feeling of loss less profound.

It occurs to me that, every time a puppy or dog comes into a new home, it’s the opening act of a tragedy, even in the happiest fulfillment: the dog comes into the home, is loved deeply and returns that unconditional love that only dogs seem capable of, and in the end, the dog leaves us behind, infinitely richer for our time together, but deeply bereft at the loss.