Euthanizing my dog showed me I could rescue her one more time

This First Person column is the experience of Alan Han, an avid dog lover who lives in Toronto. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ.

When the vet said, "I'm worried about her," I welled up and felt every inch of my face scrunch up with uncontrollable grief. I felt helpless as I watched my adopted rescue dog, Kahlua, lay on the vet's counter struggling to breathe. 

That night was a blur. Kahlua seemed healthy until we suddenly noticed her breathing became laboured. We rushed to the emergency animal hospital in Scarborough, Ont. Within 30 minutes of arriving, the vet told us she had congestive heart failure. 

Her heart was like a ticking time bomb.

As I looked into her trusting brown eyes, my face felt like a damp piece of paper — an origami of sadness — that I couldn't flatten without seeing the creases and folds of my anguish. I was what grief looked like.

We had adopted Kahlua and her sister, Precious, during the height of the pandemic. Both dogs had been surrendered to the humane society in Florida when their owner became too sick to care for them. Kahlua was a nine-year-old, brown-haired, 15-pound Chihuahua with a grumpy face, but a sweet and gentle personality. 

It didn't take long for our routine to set in. After work, my partner and I snuggled with them while watching Netflix. We went for long walks during the summer, and we scooped them up when the snow became too thick. 

As I sat in the vet's office that night, I remembered the sound of Kahlua's footsteps on our floorboards, the feel of the fur on her chest and how her nose felt wet on my cheek. These memories rushed through my mind as we contemplated what the vet had said — that we might need to euthanize her.

We listened to the vet explain the different options. We weighed the financial cost of prolonging her life for the three-to-eight months the vet said she had left against the quality of life she would have. I desperately wanted to ask Kahlua what she wanted, but she didn't understand what was happening. I could tell from her eyes that she was scared and in pain. 

The realization that Kahlua might not be coming home with us made me aware that my memories of her were also lasts: we had our last walk in the summer, the last time I picked up her poop, the last meal she ate, the last cuddle we had while watching TV. I regretted not giving her those table scraps or a piece of the hamburger we ate the other evening. I regretted not allowing her to sleep on our bed.

I wanted to know if we could keep Kahlua alive for just one more day — enough to experience all the joys she brought to our lives once again. Maybe if she could stay alive for the next hour, I could run out and buy her whatever she wanted to eat.

As I tried to make sense of what was happening, I learned a valuable lesson: When we're caught up in our routines, we sometimes forget how perfect life can be. Kahlua's prognosis made me realize that I took for granted the moments we shared together. I assumed she would live for at least another five years and there would be plenty of time for her to enjoy her favourite things.

Dogs teach us to live in the moment, and that night, Kahlua didn't have any left. In the end, the decision to euthanize her was not really a choice. Her heart had collapsed and there was no pumping it back to life. When I looked at her as she struggled to breathe through a ventilator, I finally realized that I could rescue my beloved dog one more time by taking away her pain forever.

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