Version française à venir.
We put down our dog yesterday. It was one of the hardest-hitting moments I've ever had. I'm getting through it, getting plenty of support from friends and family. But I still wanted to draw something to express what I felt. And, well... still do feel, honestly.
His name was Polar, named after the fabric. He was a labernese, cross between a labrador and a Bernese mountain dog. He had the size and build of a labrador, with the colours and temper of a Bernese. A real sweetie with everyone he met. He loved people visiting, he loved to chase balls, and would always hover close to the door when he saw we were about to leave.
We got him from a service dog company, as a foster until he was old enough to pass his exams. When he did pass the exams, he got excellent scores; good enough to be a seeing-eye dog, the most demanding type of service dog. But, it was found out that he had seasonal allergies that would get in the way of his service, and so he was declassified and we got to keep him.
It was 8 whole years before something started to seem... off. When my mom sent him to the vet, over a few weeks, it was found out that he was in pain, and later that his eyes were failing. He had a lot of trouble finding the balls we threw; that was why. Finally, yesterday the full picture was revealed: cancer. An unidentified lymphoma, that would've cost a lot to search for and then even more to treat, if it was even treatable. Instead of keeping him in pain for a long time, for something that probably wouldn't have a solution, it was decided we'd have him euthanized. My mom, dad, sister and I bid our final goodbyes, and we were there when he finally... left.
I couldn't look. I didn't want to see him end. Didn't want to see him go limp, unresponsive; that simple sight would've been so much harder to bear. I looked until he curled up in my mother's lap after the first relaxing shot. He gave a sigh, like he often would just before going to sleep at night. But the second shot, the real shot... no. I closed my eyes. I was the first to exit the room. It's already hard; seeing him, truly lifeless, would've made it so much harder.
It did cross my mind before, the idea that pets would never really know what's happening at those times. I just didn't know that'd be the idea that would hit me so hard. I wanted him to know it was our final goodbye. I wanted him to consciously give us a final sign of love, I wanted to let him have some understanding so that he could react to the situation with full knowledge. To him, it might just have been another vet visit. The idea that while we got to let him know how much we loved him, he didn't know why, and we didn't get a chance to get his own "parting words"...
---
That's what I wanted to represent here. The impossibility of letting him understand where he was headed, or what he meant to us, or how little we wanted to do this to him. We loved him, we still do, and he knew that... but there was no way to tell him this was our last time together. I don't think I've seen any images about pet heartbreak addressing this topic, so it felt appropriate to do my own, as well... it still hurts in all the other ways, but this is by far the worst part of it all for me.
It's weird. Even though we got to be there... I don't feel any closure from the event. No catharsis. And it's all because of that, because he couldn't have understood. I feel like I betrayed him in a way. He was suffering, so it may have been the best decision, but he didn't get the chance we got, to do a last few meaningful actions. I can't imagine if I'd been the one to make the decision. It was my parents who did it. The guilt of it all... at least, it was spared from me, even though I probably would've done the same.
He was taken too soon, but there was also nothing we could've done...
I can at least console myself on the fact that, for eight years, we loved him, and he loved us, and we managed to make him happy, and the same the other way around. He lived a happy life, and we're the ones who gave it to him. And that's something to be proud of.
Please, if you must offer condolences, don't tell me Polar is in a better place. He simply... isn't, anymore, and that's something I have to accept.
We put down our dog yesterday. It was one of the hardest-hitting moments I've ever had. I'm getting through it, getting plenty of support from friends and family. But I still wanted to draw something to express what I felt. And, well... still do feel, honestly.
His name was Polar, named after the fabric. He was a labernese, cross between a labrador and a Bernese mountain dog. He had the size and build of a labrador, with the colours and temper of a Bernese. A real sweetie with everyone he met. He loved people visiting, he loved to chase balls, and would always hover close to the door when he saw we were about to leave.
We got him from a service dog company, as a foster until he was old enough to pass his exams. When he did pass the exams, he got excellent scores; good enough to be a seeing-eye dog, the most demanding type of service dog. But, it was found out that he had seasonal allergies that would get in the way of his service, and so he was declassified and we got to keep him.
It was 8 whole years before something started to seem... off. When my mom sent him to the vet, over a few weeks, it was found out that he was in pain, and later that his eyes were failing. He had a lot of trouble finding the balls we threw; that was why. Finally, yesterday the full picture was revealed: cancer. An unidentified lymphoma, that would've cost a lot to search for and then even more to treat, if it was even treatable. Instead of keeping him in pain for a long time, for something that probably wouldn't have a solution, it was decided we'd have him euthanized. My mom, dad, sister and I bid our final goodbyes, and we were there when he finally... left.
I couldn't look. I didn't want to see him end. Didn't want to see him go limp, unresponsive; that simple sight would've been so much harder to bear. I looked until he curled up in my mother's lap after the first relaxing shot. He gave a sigh, like he often would just before going to sleep at night. But the second shot, the real shot... no. I closed my eyes. I was the first to exit the room. It's already hard; seeing him, truly lifeless, would've made it so much harder.
It did cross my mind before, the idea that pets would never really know what's happening at those times. I just didn't know that'd be the idea that would hit me so hard. I wanted him to know it was our final goodbye. I wanted him to consciously give us a final sign of love, I wanted to let him have some understanding so that he could react to the situation with full knowledge. To him, it might just have been another vet visit. The idea that while we got to let him know how much we loved him, he didn't know why, and we didn't get a chance to get his own "parting words"...
---
That's what I wanted to represent here. The impossibility of letting him understand where he was headed, or what he meant to us, or how little we wanted to do this to him. We loved him, we still do, and he knew that... but there was no way to tell him this was our last time together. I don't think I've seen any images about pet heartbreak addressing this topic, so it felt appropriate to do my own, as well... it still hurts in all the other ways, but this is by far the worst part of it all for me.
It's weird. Even though we got to be there... I don't feel any closure from the event. No catharsis. And it's all because of that, because he couldn't have understood. I feel like I betrayed him in a way. He was suffering, so it may have been the best decision, but he didn't get the chance we got, to do a last few meaningful actions. I can't imagine if I'd been the one to make the decision. It was my parents who did it. The guilt of it all... at least, it was spared from me, even though I probably would've done the same.
He was taken too soon, but there was also nothing we could've done...
I can at least console myself on the fact that, for eight years, we loved him, and he loved us, and we managed to make him happy, and the same the other way around. He lived a happy life, and we're the ones who gave it to him. And that's something to be proud of.
Please, if you must offer condolences, don't tell me Polar is in a better place. He simply... isn't, anymore, and that's something I have to accept.
Category Artwork (Digital) / Animal related (non-anthro)
Species Unspecified / Any
Gender Other / Not Specified
Size 1800 x 1325px
Never easy losing a pet. They become family, and it hurts just as much to lose them.
Hopefully, it'll hurt less in time, wether a short or a long one; I hope it gets easier for you.
You've got the memories of the good times, and the knowledge you gave them a good life full of love. And didn't let them suffer when you found out what was going wrong.
The journey with them is over, but you'll always have the memories at heart. It's small solice, but it's something.
Hopefully, it'll hurt less in time, wether a short or a long one; I hope it gets easier for you.
You've got the memories of the good times, and the knowledge you gave them a good life full of love. And didn't let them suffer when you found out what was going wrong.
The journey with them is over, but you'll always have the memories at heart. It's small solice, but it's something.
They really do, and I hadn't realized how I felt about him before it was too late.
The emotions are still too fresh, but I still felt I had things to do before it all faded away. I know in time, I'll get better.
Thank you for your sympathy.
The emotions are still too fresh, but I still felt I had things to do before it all faded away. I know in time, I'll get better.
Thank you for your sympathy.
My condolences to you and your family.
I hope you can find the solace to heal promptly.
I hope you can find the solace to heal promptly.
I'm crying. I'm so sorry you and this good boy had to go through this. Please hold on. He's in the best of all worlds <3
*hugs you tightly*
I've been there.
It hurts. It sucks.
There's no fixing that.
It gets better, but it will still hurt.
None of the pieces fit.
But there's one to hold onto... "I love you"
That's the one that really matters.
I've been there.
It hurts. It sucks.
There's no fixing that.
It gets better, but it will still hurt.
None of the pieces fit.
But there's one to hold onto... "I love you"
That's the one that really matters.
That's the one I want to hold on to.
If I can keep just a single piece of this incomplete puzzle, let it be that one.
Thank you for your sympathy.
If I can keep just a single piece of this incomplete puzzle, let it be that one.
Thank you for your sympathy.
My condolences... this is so extremely sad. I remember when I lost my Labrador almost a decade ago, even today I still somehow see him every day in my support dog. A glance, the excitement, a wag of tail...
We are everything to them, and they are everything to us, and saying goodbye hurts so, so much. We lose ourselves in each other's happiness. When they are gone, the world somehow turns grey. They are dearly missed.
I hope you can recover and continue to cherish his memory through pieces such as this.
Know that, for 8 years, he enjoyed every moment he spent by your side.
We are everything to them, and they are everything to us, and saying goodbye hurts so, so much. We lose ourselves in each other's happiness. When they are gone, the world somehow turns grey. They are dearly missed.
I hope you can recover and continue to cherish his memory through pieces such as this.
Know that, for 8 years, he enjoyed every moment he spent by your side.
Thank you for your sympathy.
There's no way I could forget him, and I'm at least glad there's so many other good memories to pull from.
I've been fortunate; I took it the worst in the moment, but I think I'm slowly starting to recover already. My dad may be the one who'll have the hardest time with it...
There's no way I could forget him, and I'm at least glad there's so many other good memories to pull from.
I've been fortunate; I took it the worst in the moment, but I think I'm slowly starting to recover already. My dad may be the one who'll have the hardest time with it...
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