My Kate, who is gone

It's been more than 24 hours since my precious Kate left this world.

Sunday morning, I felt it was the time to let her go, to administer a lethal dose of anesthesia that would end her life.

The last few weeks she had obviously been on a steep decline. There were the periods of not eating, followed by vomiting. There were the times when she couldn't keep from "soiling her nest," which, in spite of sleeping on the couch near her bed for three months, I could not prevent.

There were times, however, when she would actually come to the door when I came home. There were times when she would come over to me for, seemingly, the need for affection. Who really knows what goes on in a dog's mind.

Last May, before I was scheduled to attend a journalism boot camp at Gannett corporate headquarters, Kate had what I can only call an "episode."  Fully embracing the concept of letting her go, I was convinced to allow her to stay at the vet's during my absence.

She was fine when I got back.

In the interim, Kate would occasionally stop eating, vomit, have diarrhea. start eating again, have diarrhea and stop eating. Rinse. Repeat.

From my perch on the couch, I slept with one eye and ear open waiting for the unexpected overnight stroll that would culminate in either a rapid exit outside or a thorough cleaning of whatever spot Kate ultimately spoiled.

Flash forward to two weeks ago, when I was traveling to New Rochelle to cover a school board meeting. My neighbor, Nancy, had been more than willing and able to take care of Kate when I was elsewhere. She deserves more thanks than I can give her.

After a 1-1/2 hour commute, I was minutes away from the school board meeting when Nancy called telling me Kate could not get up. I immediately headed back to Poughkeepsie, though traffic and an accident on the Sprain Brook Parkway extended the commute by an additional half hour.

By the time I got home, Kate was fine. A mystery.

Then came last Sunday, yesterday.

I got up and got ready to take Kate outside, which is what I did before going out for my walk.

She couldn't stand up. She was sitting but, even on a textured surface—her pallet and two rugs—she couldn't get to her feet.

I managed to lift her hind quarters and we got outside for a pee.

Afterward, Kate just stood. Not sniffing. Nothing. Like a blank stare. I had to eventually drag her back to the house.

I left her,  as usual, standing in the entry way, to go for a walk on the Walkway Over the Hudson.

I had a lot of time to think about things. More and more, I was thinking that the time was coming to end things.

When I came back from my walk, Kate was sitting up but could not get up on her feet.

That was the confirmation I needed. It was time.

I called the emergency clinic off of Route 55 in Poughkeepsie.

My neighbor Nancy and her granddaughter helped me get Kate to the clinic.

It was over before you knew it.

Kate and I went into a room where I sat on the floor petting her. She was taken away to have a catheter put in her right front leg for easier administration of the drug.

The vet came in and explained the process: a double dose of anesthesia would be administered and Kate would fall asleep.

There was a 1/2 inch diameter tube of pink-ish liquid in a three-inch syringe that the vet compressed.

The fluid went in. Kate was oddly calm for a moment, but then her eyes closed and her head went down, the tip of her little pink tongue sticking out of her mouth. Within two minutes, maybe less, the vet said there was no pulse.

My wonderful Kate, my wonderful companion for almost 16 years, was gone.

Laughingly, there were only two tissues in the room. I said to the vet, "This is the wrong time to run out of Kleenex," and she scurried to get more.

I left the best dog in the world in that room in the clinic on Sunday.

I gave her almost 16 years of love and comfort. I could have given her more if she had let me, but it was time to let her go.

My Kate.

Thank you.