Last week was one of the hardest I can remember: my wife and I said farewell¹ to Pippin, our eleven-year-old Boston terrier, on Wednesday.

Pippin had been diagnosed with a heart base tumor in October(ish) 2023. He was in great spirits and (otherwise) good health at the time so we opted to pursue the recommended three days of radiation treatment that December. We followed up with additional CTs and X-rays to keep tabs on the tumor's progression, and it seemed like Pippin had responded well to the treatment. The tumor's growth was halted (if not quite reversed), and Pippin's spirits, energy, and personality remained high.

For a time. We started seeing some worrying changes last June/July. He began to have less energy for playing with his adopted younger brother, less of an appetite for dinner or even treats, and (most concerning to us) less interest in the purple stuffed dinosaur that had been his constant² companion since he was a young pup.

As time went on, he started pacing anxious (and loud, on our fake-hardwood floors) circles around the house. He'd wander into a corner and stand there, staring at the wall. He developed bladder control issues and stopped sleeping through the night, needing to go out every couple of hours.

Our vet did exams and blood work to see if there was anything to explain the changes other than just general cognitive decline or canine senility. Pippin's liver numbers were a bit off and he had lost a lot of body mass from not eating, but otherwise everything seemed to be physically okay. We were prescribed a number of medicines and supplements to help treat the symptoms: here's one for the liver, one for the incontinence, one for the anxiety and restlessness, another for promoting cognitive function in aging canines, and so on.

We held on, hoping for any sign of improvement while at the same time coming to accept that our days with our sweet boy were numbered. I kept patiently waking up every few hours to take him out, and my wife kept patiently cleaning up the messes he'd leave for her to find when she got home from work. We prepared more and more elaborate feasts to entice him to eat: shredded chicken, boiled eggs, rice, fancy refrigerated food for the fanciest of dogs, spray cheese because we're not that fancy...

He ate more consistently, but didn't regain the weight he'd lost. He still paced anxiously, and seemed increasingly lost in the home he knew so well. His eyesight deteriorated further, and he would stumble over his feet, walk into walls and furniture, and be startled by gentle pets that he didn't see coming.

On Tuesday, his slow decline took a dramatic fall. My wife was petting him while he lay next to her on the bed, when he suddenly whirled at snapped at her, as if he had no idea who she was or how he'd gotten there. That was worrying enough on its own, but also was struggling to stand and fell over several times. He refused to eat anything. He kind of stared through us instead of looking at us. It was heartbreaking. The decline had been so slow that we had just kind of accepted "the new normal", but this sudden change snapped us out of our stubborn delusion. We talked about how we needed to make The Decision sooner rather than later now.

I took Wednesday off to take him to the vet that morning. He always loved going anywhere in the car but especially the vet, where he was treated like a superstar. The journey didn't register with him at all this time. The vet identified that he had a really bad ear infection which could potentially be blamed for some of the sudden decline, but also indicated that it might be time to start considering end-of-life care options. This was the first time that a vet didn't give us a sunny "oh take some of this and watch him for 6 weeks" recommendation, and it really lined up with what we had been discussing at home. We knew that even if we treated the ear infection it wouldn't meaningfully improve Pippin's quality of life, and trying to drag it out further would just be selfish of us. And while further X-rays or CTs might give me comfort about what exactly was going on inside his body, I recognized that the knowledge probably wouldn't really help him.

It was time to let him go. We made arrangements to return in the afternoon so that we could all be together - including his three-year-old brother, Merry³. We spent the hours leading up to that appointment sitting with Pippin on the couch, wrapped in blankets and smothering each other with teary hugs and caresses. I cried and I sobbed and I blew my nose over and over then I did it again.

Upon arrival back at the vet's office, they kindly escorted us to a comfortable, quiet room. We sat on the couch, Pippin wrapped in his favorite blanket in my lap, and Merry looking on from my wife's lap. We told Pippin what a good boy he was and how much we loved him, and caressed his head as the doctor injected him with the cocktail that would carry him away from this life.

Feeling Pippin's body go completely limp as he let out his final breath is about the worst thing I've ever experienced.

As sad as I was to say goodbye to my friend, I soon began to feel a sense of relief, comforted to know that he wasn't suffering or anxious anymore. It was the right time. I'm glad that we got to spend those last moments together as a family, and it was good that we included Merry in The Event so that he hasn't been looking for his brother at home.

A week later, our home feels empty and quiet, despite Merry doing a great job of distracting us. We're surrounded by reminders of our first boy and those still hurt, but less each day. We're (mostly) able to talk about Pippin without breaking into tears⁴, and we've been reflecting on all the love and joy that Pippin brought into our lives these last eleven years. We did have some truly incredible times together.

For his part, Merry seems to be adapting well to being an only child - if a little overwhelmed by the extended snuggles he's getting.