12/22/2023
The Last Heartbeat
By Gretchen Yost
Every time I listen to a heartbeat fade, I realize I’m at a precipice between worlds that few experience. A precious life is ending in my hands, by my hands. On this side of the veil, all eyes are on me and my stethoscope, ready for the word so that a different phase of grief can begin. This woman has been dreading this moment for so long. Bisbee was her father’s dog—as arthritic, ancient, and ill as he was before he passed and her only remaining connection to him. If I say “They are together again”—will that comfort her?
This man can’t be there and says a wailing goodbye to the cat before leaving the room. He never liked cats before, but this one stole his soul and loved camping and sunshine and chattering at ravens and sharing ice cream every Sunday night from his bowl as a treat. His wife stays for the whole process, box breathing, talking and holding and petting this frail orange tabby in her lap until the end.
This family can’t accept that their young pit bull full of energy will not, cannot survive the antifreeze he got into that has scorched his kidneys. Brutus wags his tail. The family priest is called and put on speaker phone for a prayer to God for a miracle. Isn’t it possible, Father? We wait for that miracle; they are not ready. I return in three days when they are ready even though Brutus will still wag when they kiss his dry nose.
The death of a pet is a sacred moment and I am invited in as a stranger of necessity for the most intimate of moments. I have crawled onto unmade beds of strangers in bathrobes surrounded by mounds of Kleenex. I have crouched into dog houses, under dining room tables and on bathroom tiles. I have knelt next to couches covered in p*e pads for animal friends who have long been incontinent. I have hugged more crying people than a President in a warzone. I try to be invisible, a chameleon blending in to the grief and becoming what I’m needed to be. I’m quiet but still try to find comforting words to fill in the gaps of mourning and uncertainty like whiskey between ice cubes. I did not become a veterinarian for this. No one teaches you how to do this; instead you spend four years learning every possible way to prevent this. I cannot explain how a tenderhearted kid who was devastated by “Dumbo” “Charlotte’s Web” and “Old Yeller” grew into someone who felt compelled to offer home euthanasia, but here I am.
Death comes for us all. It is what all of the living beings on Earth have in common and nothing could be more natural, but of course, that is just logic. We are never ready or prepared for death, and certainly ending a life you have nurtured is not natural. Some reflect that saying goodbye to their pet is harder than any human death they’ve experienced. Some share stories of how their relationship with this animal was the only reason they were able to survive a tragedy, an illness, a divorce, a loss. Those of us lucky enough to have discovered the human-animal bond know the magic effect of a purring feline sleeping next to you or the joy-jolt of a dog running in happy circles just to see you. They accept us. They forgive us. They love us and we grow dependent upon them for our quality of life. Letting that go to spare them the suffering we know lies ahead is always a selfless decision.
That first phone call to me can be resolute and quick or it can be long. With some there is considerable time pondering the agonizing question “When do I know it’s time?” We talk about quality of life, about dignity and fear and mobility and independence and that amazing animal trait of living only in the present. Our animal friends do not lament the plans they had, regret things not done or mourn the thought of not seeing another fall with its bright colors. However, the harsh reality is that we are all programmed to live and to fight to live. We cannot will our bodies to die and an animal will not commit su***de. In the natural world this is not necessary as death comes often violently and painfully to the weak and ill. A natural death for them is not necessarily more humane.
When the day and hour comes, most have spent days preparing and saying goodbye. They think they cannot cry any more—but of course they do. Some have many stories to tell, photos and videos to show, and even painted portraits hanging on the wall. Some offer elaborate ceremonies of separation—blankets, cornmeal, incense, music, chocolate cakes, sirloin treats, bells of Bastet the goddess of cats. There is not a difference between poor and rich, between religious or atheist, between cat or dog or chicken or rat. Love is love is love and it is never greater than in the hour of separation. I am so grateful to see animals loved like this. Maybe that is why I am here.
I have the ability to render death and choose to do so. It is a mighty weight and a power I could argue should not be mine if not for the universal, sincere utterances of gratitude through snot and tears. What happens after our hearts stop beating? I am no closer to knowing the answer than when the unthinkable happened to Old Yeller. Personally I am counting on going to that warm light and when my eyes adjust there will be a welcoming committee of fur, barks, meows, and wags. My lifelong pets will be front of the line, but I hope the ones I have helped out of their failing bodies will trot over and give me a wink and a nudge and I’ll know this was all okay. I hope I pass from this world in the arms of the one who loves me most, in my home after a meal of my favorite food and someone telling me I was a good girl. That’s what I tell people when the heart stops and theirs keeps beating.
Dr. Gretchen Yost has worked as a veterinarian in New Mexico for over 20 years. For the last 15 she has worked at Española Humane and many years ago she started a part time home euthanasia service called Angel Paws serving the Española Valley.
