When We Put Mollie Down
Our pets become members of our families, and it is hard to say goodbye.
A few years ago, we put our German Shorthair Pointer down. Mollie was 17 years old. She died as she had lived: a loyal, loving family member.
Our pets are not only beautiful companions. They become members of our families. They share so much of our lives, and when their lives are at an end, we owners have hard and painful decisions to make. This is our story with Mollie — or, rather, her story with us.
Seventeen years ago, right after they were married, my son and his bride ‘rescued’ Mollie as a puppy from a house full of college kids. Mollie was the first animal our son and daughter-in-law cared for together. Their first pet. In those days, Mollie was a rambunctious, high-energy dog with a purebred ability to point birds, chase them in flight, and bound after off her lead.
My son sent her to “camp” in West Texas for six weeks to teach her manners. It didn’t work. Before her enrollment in the dog training school, Mollie would run through their house, jump on every sofa and chair, and wrestle with throw pillows. Every bed was a trampoline. After her schooling, none of that changed.
How Mollie Came to Live with Us
Maybe that is why Mollie came to live with my wife and me. A few years after our son and his wife moved back to the Dallas area where we live, Fran and I were dog-sitters occasionally. One weekend, Mollie came to stay with us while they were out of town. Jed and Stacy had added a child to their family, and when they moved into a house with a tiny, muddy yard, Mollie needed room to roam, sniff, and scout out birds. On another weekend, when they were out of town, we were dog-sitters again. Mollie never went back. We were dog-parents.
She had a regal look about her; her bloodlines were pure. Mollie lived in our home through the years of whirling activity, church gatherings, and grandchildren who tugged on her soft ears. Considering her early years of bouncing, jumping, running, and chasing, she easily settled into our family. She always came to the door to greet visitors. She loved brisk walks on a leash, and with all of her training, she never understood who should be walking whom. She never stopped pulling her escort down the path. ‘Heel’ meant nothing to her.
Time passed, and Mollie grew old. Fran took on the duties of caring for this aging family member. As with everything, Fran ministered faithful and loving patience with Mollie in the final years. Mollie had ‘accidents’ near the door when she couldn’t get outside quickly enough. Sores appeared on her body as her immune system began to break down. She’d lick the sores raw until she bled. A few times, when we had to go out of town, Fran would ask a dog-sitter to come and be with Mollie and the other animals.
I knew Mollie’s end was near when I came home from a trip and saw the dog sitter’s solution to Mollie’s “accidents”. The well-meaning friend had outfitted the regal dog with a pink diaper wrapped around her hindquarters. Enough was enough, Mollie seemed to say. Her noble stature had been humbled. After years of faithful service and play, the dog was ready for her final end, it seemed. She was ready before we were.
Saying Goodbye
We told our grandchildren it was time to say goodbye to the first dog they had ever known. They came over for teary goodbyes with Mollie. Their petting soothed her. She loved their hugs. She lay her head on their laps and breathed slowly as if to say, “I don’t know why you are here, but I like it to be with you.”
The day she died was a precious moment for Fran and me. We called the vet, made the arrangements, and came to the clinic prepared for a difficult send-off. The vet was wonderful. We followed a tech to an isolated room away from the barking and activity of the animal hospital.
As we entered the waiting room to sign in, I noticed a lit candle on the countertop. It was for Mollie — and us. A sign next to the candle asked others to be quiet and respectful; a family was saying goodbye to a loved one. Oh my, I thought, this will be very hard to bear.
The doctor came in and told us what would occur. A quick sedative would settle her — she was very agitated. Then, we would have a few moments alone with Mollie. Then, the doctor would return and put her into a final sleep.
That is how it happened. After the first dose, she seemed to sway a bit as the drug’s effect came over her. I hoisted her onto the counter of the examination room. She made a last and gallant effort to stand, but her legs gave way one by one, and Fran and I gently held her in a blanket. Both sets of our arms wrapped around her. She finally relaxed. Her breathing was slow and easy. I could feel the thump, thump, thump of her heart. I could see it — the beat of her heart — in the hollow of her chest. Her eyes were dreamy. She relaxed. It was our last time with her.
Remembering Mollie
Fran and I cuddled with her. It was so tender and real. We recalled memories and some stories she starred in. Once, when she got off her lead, she chased a few ducks near Jed’s seminary in Pittsburgh and was lost. Hours later, the story goes, Jed received a phone call from a tugboat captain. He spotted Mollie swimming down the Allegheny River chasing the same ducks. She would never have caught them; they were always about 20 yards ahead, honking and taunting her. The captain fished Mollie out of the river, read her tag, and called Jed. He brought her home. The story made Mollie a legend in the region.
We remembered when an advertising agency enlisted Mollie for a photo shoot. It was summer, and The Fossil Company was shooting their winter Christmas marketing campaign. They needed a good-looking (dare I say regal) dog, and Mollie’s name was put forward. The artistic director took one look and put her in the scene. She was the star of the shoot. She was a hit. Five months later, her picture appeared on the front cover of their holiday catalog. Giant posters featuring Mollie were everywhere that season.
Many more memories came to us. We wept for her. We wept for our loss. We cried for the relentless passage of time that ultimately takes all things down to the dust. While I cradled her in my arms on the countertop in the clinic, I thought of so many others in our family who had died. My sister. Fran’s parents. And it was hard not to imagine the day I would be cradled by a loved one as I faced my lived my final moments on earth. We all go down to the dust. All of us. (Ecclesiastes 3:20)
Glory and Grief
The doctor came in a final time and asked if we were ready to let her go. We smiled at our beloved dog and said yes. He did what he said he would. Seconds later, I felt her warm body grow slightly cooler. Her heart stopped. She was down. She had died.
Goodbye, dear sweet animal. And thank you, God, for the glory and wonder of your created order.
It was a hard drive home. We had her leash, her collar, and her dog tags. But we didn’t have Mollie. We walked into the house and were immediately greeted by the two other dogs living with us. They were ready for dinner.
Mollie’s absence didn’t seem to move them at all, nor could it. We tend to humanize our pets with our feelings toward them. We often consider them semi-human. But humans are wholly unique beings under God’s created order. The Old Story tells us animals are made of mud and, as spirited as they can be, do not have spiritual awareness. Mollie had died. They were unaware of it. They knew it not. They were hungry. We were grieving.
Our veterinarian is a committed Christian, and a few days after we put Mollie down, Fran received a text from him. It was as caring a message as I could have imagined. It was even profound and spiritually poignant. He wrote this:
I know how hard it is to let go of our pets. I know it was hard for you. Not only that, but I have seen many people struggle to know when the right time is. Our pets become members of our families, and it is just so hard to say goodbye and believe we are doing what is right at the right time.
But making these decisions is part of our responsibility because we were given dominion over all His creation with the breath of life.
This note is beautiful and generous. He didn’t lapse into sweet platitudes about Mollie being in heaven and chasing squirrels while finally off the leash. He told the biblical truth that we (humans) are very different from all other species on the planet. We are “inspired” by the breath of God. (Genesis 2:7) We were made to have dominion over all things and to care for all things. We are the stewards of creation. We don’t abandon our pets when they get sick. We do what we can and follow them through it. We provide and protect them as best we can.
He ended his text with a call to the rightful and responsible way to be a steward of God’s creation. He said,
I know you did what was right for Mollie. You did it because it was a kind, caring, and final loving act for a friend you loved. You did it because it was what was right for her.
That is how we ended it with Mollie. Even today, years after the event, I will never forget how she came to live with us. The joy she brought into our lives, her kindness toward our grandchildren, and her eagerness to please, sniff, explore, chase, and fetch. And when it was time, I will never forget how we said goodbye. And thank you
The Rev. David Roseberry, an ordained Anglican priest with over 40 years of pastoral experience, offers leadership services to pastors, churches, and Christian writers. He is an accomplished author whose books are available on Amazon. He is the Executive Director of LeaderWorks, where his work and resources can be found.
