A friend once told me that pet owners made for the worst conversationalists - they couldn’t seem to find anything to talk about other than their pets! Ever since she told me that, I made a conscious effort to notice how ‘pet-people’ interacted at social gatherings; and sure enough, I did notice that the one subject that lit up their faces was talking of their pet(s). I did some introspection and realised that I was no different and just needed an excuse to launch into an extended monologue about my own pets. But, then, this is a quirk that only another pet-owner would be able to relate to.
When I brought Casper home he was just about 5 weeks old. And my life was never the same! That small bundle of fur managed to turn my life topsy-turvy: he chewed up mobile phones, books, television remotes, CDs, footwear, was like a bull in a China shop knocking things down with one swish of his tail, nibbled at furniture, grabbed food from my plate - feeling apologetic each time, of course, but that feeling was so short lived it didn’t last even until his next act of mischief! I become his mother and, he, a very loving companion. I nurtured him, took care of him and enjoyed his company in my life. We soon developed a bond that only he and I understood - he would come to me if he hurt himself, lay on me if I were unwell, bring a toy if I were down in spirits and even had a favourite lullaby that I would sing to him!
Soon enough he grew from that tiny bundle into a huge, loving and intelligent dog and I could swear that one could have discussions on the world economy with him! He was intimidating in his size but was often referred to as a ‘gentle giant’; he strode along with a gait so majestic that he was called ‘the lion-dog’ and he never failed to have heads turn when I took him on rides. Eleven years of running, playing and loving passed along creating the most cherished of memories.
Until one day when Casper was diagnosed with generalised lymphosarcoma. I was devastated when the results of a biopsy through a fine-needle aspiration defeated all my denials that Casper could be suffering from the dreaded disease, cancer. When I came back home with Casper the fateful morning that I got the news, I held his face in my hands, looked him in his eyes, and told him that we were going to fight it together and that he would have to cooperate with me in my every effort to help him fight; his giving up was not an option. Since I had decided against putting him through chemotherapy, given his age, I knew I had taken upon myself an already lost battle. The doctors put him on palliative treatment and I began my research on canine lymphosarcoma, studying alternative systems of medicine that showed me that small glimmer of hope, had him listen to more Indian Classical music expecting that it would have some magical curative powers… Our visits to the hospital became more frequent and the doctors would simply smile everytime I sounded positive and upbeat about Casper making it. On one such visit, the doctors informed me that we had only about 4-6 weeks in Casper’s company. I gave up everything else to take care of Casper, talk to him, comfort him and simply be with him. He communicated with me through his eyes a lot more than he had ever done before; his walks would tire him and he would look at me wanting to go back home; he refused to grab the ball that I rolled towards him…and then he gave up eating. The doctors reassured me he wasn’t in any pain, though he was in some discomfort and suggested that I might have to take a decision on euthanising him, “in his best interests”, if his quality of life deteriorated.
All through the years of enjoying his presence in my life, I never thought that I would one day be faced with the dilemma of having to decide on putting him down. After the doctors informed me of euthanasia I began reading up on the circumstances in which one would take such a decision regarding a pet, and I was surprised to find that all advice considered the pets ‘quality of life’, rated against a check list of activities that the pet looked forward to. While the idea that I could decide on the fate of the life of a pet, who was an integral part of my life, remained anathema to me, I couldn’t set aside the fact that it was all about giving the pet a dignified end. I had visions of Casper and I walking together towards a bright light and playing in beautiful gardens together and I found myself losing hope. I made a list of things that gave him joy and slowly I had to strike out each of those from the list. A day after he gave up eating he was also unable to walk. If he indicated he wanted to move, I carried him. When he felt thirsty he asked for water just to moisten his lips. One morning he asked to be taken to each room of the place that was his home for eleven years and I helped him move from room to room until he decided to settle down in the room that we spent the maximum time together. My heart ached and from the way he looked at me, something told me that his end was near and I began doing what I had never imagined I would have to - prepare for his cremation. My religion did not permit burial but since the lone pet crematorium in the city was not functional, I, not wanting to bury him in the yard of my house, began the heart wrenching job of calling up pet cemeteries.
That evening I lay next to Casper and had what was to be our last conversation. I looked into his large eyes brimming with love, as I spoke to him, and recollected the wonderful times we had together - our picnics, our lovely walks together, the games we played and thanked him for filling my life with his unconditional love, for without him, a part of my soul would have remained unawakened. As his breathing was getting more erratic I told him that he was a brave boy for having fought this far and that I would still love him if he wanted to give up.
Casper signed off shortly after our conversation on the 15th of July, with the entire family around him. My heart broke as I carried his lifeless body in the very arms that once brought him home as a puppy.
Five weeks on, life is not the same without him. It never will be. For, along with him, a part me died.
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