Rebuilding Rob

I caught a question on a Facebook group recently that was, admittedly, a bit dark, but interesting nonetheless:

Would you stay with your dog during euthanasia?

The Weight of the Decision

I’m going to expand the purview of this a little bit to include both dogs and cats. To answer the question: yes. I have stayed with a couple of my dogs as they were being euthanized, and a couple of my cats as well.

I’m not going to get into the argument of whether pets are more important than humans or vice versa, but losing a pet feels different than losing a human. Our animals can’t talk to us. They can’t look at you and say, “Dude, I’m miserable, please just let me go,” nor can they say, “I’m still fighting, let me hang in there a little longer.” In some respects, that makes being a “pet parent” more emotionally gut-wrenching; you have to make the decision for a being that has no way to act upon its own choices.

It is interesting that society sees euthanizing a pet as much more merciful than euthanizing a human being. I was living in Metro Detroit during the early 1990s when Jack Kevorkian was making national and even world headlines with his “suicide machine.” He was in and out of court, eventually going to jail, and his attorney, Geoffrey Fieger, became perhaps the most famous lawyer in Southeastern Michigan because of it.

But back to the question at hand: I would not let my pets face that moment alone. As their human, you are the center of their world for their 15 or 20 years of life. I couldn’t imagine a scenario where I looked at one of my pets and said, “I can’t be in here for this.”

I’ve never been present for the end of a human being’s life. While it’s not something I wish to see, there is a part of me that almost wishes I could “get it out of the way” now—a matter of wanting to be prepared before I lose someone who has been in my life for decades. I wasn’t in the room when my father died ten years ago. My mom and sister had stepped out for just a few minutes, and I’ve heard it said that some people “wait to die” until their loved ones leave, as if they are sensitive to whether or not those remaining can handle that final moment.

Luminous Beings and Empty Shells

When I am with an animal that has passed, or even when I’m attending a person’s funeral, something specific happens to me. I miss them, I break down, and I cry. But after a little while, the reality of death sets in. I realize that the body I’m looking at is no longer the person I’m grieving for.

I’m not a terribly spiritual guy, but I do believe in the concept of a soul. There’s a great line in The Empire Strikes Back where Yoda says, “Luminous beings we are, not this crude matter.” I believe that. At the moment of death, there is a shift. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but the room feels different. That soul, that “luminous being,” leaves the body.

It reminds me of an old Star Trek: The Next Generation episode where a Klingon warrior dies. His comrades look at the body and say simply, “It is only an empty shell now. Please treat it as such.” I understand that sentiment. Once the “luminous” part is gone, the body really is just an empty shell. It’s why I struggle with the choice between a traditional burial and cremation. I remember a point of contention shortly before my father died. He wanted to be buried in a military cemetery two hours away; my mother wanted him closer to home. They ultimately compromised, and he is buried in a military section of a cemetery near their house.

Funerals are for the Living

I remember talking to my oldest friend, “the Apostle,” and the best man at my wedding. He reminded me during the funeral that “funerals and grave sites are for the living.” They are meant to help those left behind through the grieving process.

Facing the Big Stuff at 51

Whenever death is on my brain, I think of my mother, or my neighbor who lost her husband last winter. I can’t imagine the profound loss of dedicating forty years to one person and suddenly facing the world without them. People ask if I fear facing the world alone, but the truth is, at 51, I already feel like I am. Not in a way that seeks pity, but in the sense that I’m already navigating the “big stuff” by myself.

We all picture ourselves as younger than we are, but the creaks in my joints and the lines in the mirror remind me that the “crude matter” is slowing down. We can’t truly know what that final loss will feel like until we’re in it, but for now, I choose to stay in the room. I choose to be present for the “luminous” parts, even when they’re preparing to leave.

I know this is a heavy topic, but I’d value hearing your reflections if this resonated with you today.

Thanks for stopping by Rebuilding Rob. Be sure to like 👍, comment, and subscribe below. It’s greatly appreciated! Also, feel free to follow me on social media and check out my recent posts!

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The article “Staying in the room” first appeared on Rebuilding Rob.