D. E. Larsen, DVM
Marge was standing at the exam table trying to comfort an old Dachshund when in entered the exam room. The old Dachshund, sitting on his rear end, unable to stand on his hind legs.
“This is Hank,” Marge said. “When we got him as a pup, I named him Henry. My husband, George, dead now, immediately shortened it to Hank. My father had been named Henry. He was a crotchety old German, and he hated it when anybody called him Hank. He didn’t much of George. I think George felt the same way.
I patted Hank on his head. This was the first time I had seen Marge and Hank. He looked like he had been through his share of battles. The grey on his muzzle told of his years, along with the cataracts in his eye. He was obviously uncomfortable with his situation but not obviously painful.
“He hasn’t been able to stand for a couple of days,” Marge said. “The same thing happened a year or two ago, and he got better with some pills. I was hoping he was going to get better on his own, but it doesn’t look like it.”
I pinched a couple of toe on his feet. There was no response to the pain, just a withdrawal response. I pinched harder, but still no response. I picked up a forceps from the counter and squeezed a toe nail hard enough to make me worry about crushing the nail. There was still no response from Hank.
“Hank has no deep pain response,” I said. “That means that Hank has a major spinal cord injury. We should start with some x-rays to see what his back looks like.”
“Hank was George’s dog,” Marge said. “When this happened a few years ago, we spent a small fortune on treatment. Since then, George up and died, and Hank has gotten a lot older. I am not planning to spend another small fortune on him again.”
“To be honest, if Hank has been like this for a couple of days, there is not much that can be done that will help him,” I said. “Surgery is helpful in these cases if done in the first 24 hours. After that, the spinal injury is likely permanent. Sometimes with rest and steroids, we will see return to function, but that is probably by God’s hands, not the surgeon’s.
“I think I would like to talk about putting Hank to sleep,” Marge said. “How do you do that?”
“That might be a good choice for Hank,” I said. “Otherwise, we are going to be putting him through a lot of pain and suffering with an unfavorable outcome being likely.”
“Yes, I agree,” Marge said. “But how do you put him to sleep?”
“We can do things however you would like,” I said. “But, I’m a farm boy, and I learned many years ago that if you have an unpleasant tack to perform it is best just to get it done. I usually just give an injection in the vein on his front leg. He is gone before the needle is out.”
“How do we know that he is dead?” Marge asked,
“Trust me, when I give him this injection he is dead,” I said. “There is no second thoughts, there is no reviving him.”
“Will, my son is a real doctor, and we had him put our previous dog to sleep for us,” Marge said. “And that dog woke up!”
“Maybe that’s why your son is a real doctor and not a veterinarian,” I said.
Marge gave some thought to that response. I could tell that she was thinking hard about her decision.
“Okay, let’s do it,” Marge said, with a stern voice I had not heard from her before. “Do you want me to stay?”
“That’s your choice, Marge,” I said. “You can stay with Hank during the injection if you want, or you can wait out front, and check him after it is over. With your concerns about him being dead, I would not suggest you leave, but it is all your choice.”
“Which do you prefer?” Marge asked.
“I really have don’t care, it is your choice,” I said. “I know a lot of people like to stay. Some like to hold the pet. Actually, I thick that is not calming like they believe, but instead, it transmits their anxiety to the pet.”
“That make since,” Marge said. “I’ll wait out front. And can you cremate him and return the ashes to me?”
“Yes, and if you would like the ashes in a special urn, Sandy has all that information for you,” I said.
Marge left the room and closed the door behind her
“Wow, that was a hard decision for her,” Marilyn said as she cradled Hank in her arms.
“The episode with the last dog waking up was probably pretty traumatic for her,” I said. “Her son didn’t do her any favors.”
“What do you suppose went on there?” Marilyn asked.
“I would guess her son used phenobarbital,” I said. “It is probably the only thing he hav access to. We use pentobarbital, which is rapid acting and much more profound. But the DEA is restricting the availability of pentobarbital more all the time. That is due to its abuse potential and how dangerous it is if people abuse it.”
“Could he have done anything differently?” Marilyn asked.
“When I was in school, if a student did a euthanasia without a professor at hand, we had to open the chest afterwards,” I said. “That way if a mistake was made, a vein missed or a dose miscalculated, and the animal started to recovered, it would have a pneumothorax and not be able to breathe so it could not recover. That was just a double check for students. I don’t think doing that with phenobarbital would be considered an ethical euthanasia.”
I place a rubber band tourniquet on Hank’s right front leg. The cephalic vein popped up, I slipped the needle into the vein, Hank did not respond. I delivered five ccs of pentobarbital, Hank was gone before the injection was complete. The calculated dose for Hank was two ccs, with Marge’s concerns, I wanted no questions.
I opened the exam room door and motioned for Marge to come inside. Marilyn had placed Hank on a kennel fleece on the table. Marge patted him. I held out my stethoscope for her use, but she just smiled.
“Thank you, Doctor Larsen. Sandy said you would call when the ashes were ready,” Marge said as she was leaving.
Photo Credit: Mario K on Pexels,com.
