At the end, it was peaceful. We went in on Wednesday knowing, but hopeful there would be something else. But there wasn't. We exhausted all of the options. His skin was getting worse. His lymph nodes were beginning to occlude his throat. His face and eyes were sunken.
But he was still being Leo, right up until the car ride. In fact, he tried to jump out of the car when we got there.
They gave us all the time that we needed, which was a lot. When Dr. C finally came in to do it, he was laying on the floor, head down. There was no struggle, no bolting for the door, barely even and acknowledgement of her.
I held his head as she injected him with propofol, and he drifted off to sleep. Then the drugs stopped his heart, and Leo was gone. It was done in less than a minute. And I held his head on my lap. I'd told him I'd be there until the end, and when it was time, I'd do the right thing.
Well, it was time.
It hit everyone hard. Dr. C was visibly flustered, which was a major departure from her normal clinical detachment.
Dr. Slade, the medical director at VERG, came in as soon as he heard it was that great gettin' up day for Leo. It was after, while we sat with Leo's not lifeless body. There was no more struggle to breathe, no more pain, no more needles and treatments. No more cancer.
Dr. Slade said that Leo is the success story they tell when dogs are diagnosed with lymphoma. Three and a half years, most of them very very good times. Ups and downs, without question, but mostly up. He pet Leo's head affectionately, gently. He had been a source of pride and solace for them.
Then we said goodbye. We straightened him out on the blanket and wrapped it around his body. We helped the tech pick him up, and she carried him out the door. And like that, he's gone. A memory.
I’ve still got people to update, people to tell. Some via
text. Some in person. It's not easy. Working, writing, thinking, all of it - It’s been tough.
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