The doctor called this morning. She had looked in on Gus during her rounds and found no improvement. The prednisone did not work. The food he was receiving through the nasal gastric tube was being regurgitated and he was leaking diarrhea. My boy was slipping further away.
I have no way of getting in touch with Becki to tell her the bad news. I can only send her a text, letting her know that I need to talk to her and to call as soon as she can. I have to tell her that Gus is dying, that it’s time to let go of our boy and that she won’t be able to see him before he goes.
Becki was finally able to call me at around 2pm. The connection was crummy and she kept cutting out. It was one of the worst conversations I’ve ever had. Becki was crushed. She understood what had to be done, but was so upset, inconsolable. She would never see Gus again. I let her cry until the line went dead.
I called the hospital so that they could have Gus ready for the euthanasia. When I got there they directed me to a room with a blanket on the floor and then brought him in. The staff had taken the nasal tube out, but there was a small spot of blood on his nose. Gus looked at me and wagged his tail weakly. He was so tired. I laid him down on the floor, rubbed his head and buried my face in his neck, trying to remember the feel of him, the smell of him. I said goodbye after only six short years.
I don’t know why, but I didn’t cry when the doctor administered the lethal dose of anesthesia. Gus was gone in seconds, painlessly and silently. I didn’t cry.
Later that night, when Becki made it back to her hotel and called, is when I broke down. We had to share our grief as best as we could over a phone call.
Gus is gone.
