Grab your tissues and a warm drink. If you sought out this info, you’re probably sad enough as it is. Our animals are gifts from God, and knowing an end is coming is hard. Six months later, it’s hard. Six years later, I still cry, Sixteen years after the fact, I have a hard time thinking about the moments I said goodbye. Knowing when to say goodbye, is one of the hardest parts of loving animals.

My Stories for Your Story

I hope that through my stories, you can gain clarity for your own experience.

I can say them by name, and remember each time clearly – the way my heart felt, the questions swirling through my mind.

As the youngest kid and the most in love with animals of any variety, the family dog felt most like mine (though other members of my family might fight me over that statement). What I remember from my middle school brain, was that in our love and desire to keep him around, we waited too late. 

We Waited Too Late

His hind legs barely held him up, he couldn’t see or hear or even control his own bladder. We fed him Vienna Sausages to try to get some weight on his protruding ribs. One night, in a whirlwind of trying to cook family dinner before the football game, and tired of the constant cleaning up of urine and worse, my mom let him outside for a bit.

My dad, knowing how poorly Bama had been doing, never expected our dog to be outside when he careened into the driveway – also in a rush to eat and make it to my brother’s football game in time.

There was no blame. Only crushed hearts because we all loved that dog so much, and we all knew.

We waited too late.

Losing Them Young

Then there was Tippo. She was a young retired Thoroughbred racehorse who had been a wedding gift from a friend. I was smitten with this filly. I had trained her for a year before her owner gifted the horse to me. She moved to Virginia with us after the wedding, and a year later she coliced.

The vet was at the barn when she first showed signs of discomfort. Every step of the way I had a medical professional monitoring her intestines. As a horse girl, I knew that I knew that I knew that colic was a leading cause of death in horses. I just never imagined it happening like this, and certainly not to my Tippo.

A couple of hours after the first signs, the vet said her intestines were swelling so rapidly that if we didn’t euthanize her soon, something would rupture and she would die an unbearably painful death.

I was so confused. I’m a fighter. I fight for my dreams and my beliefs and my family and my horses. I wanted to fight. But what if this was a losing battle? And what if my fight only hurt my beloved Tippo more?

So I gave the vet a nod and watched her fill a syringe with pink liquid. I’d never hated pink more than in that moment.

Praise the Lord for peace and clarity.

When the Ball Was In My Court, and I’m Still Not Over It

My dog Sandi, who had been with me in Kentucky as I cried myself to sleep wondering where Gideon was, who lived to be at my side no matter where that was, was a different story. 

As I became an adult, she grew old. Her soft belly was covered in liver spots, and the grey that once covered just her nose spread to most of her head. Sometimes she wouldn’t breathe for long stretches while she slept and I begged God to take her in her sleep. 

I saw it in other people’s eyes – they thought it was time. When I asked for advice everyone gave the same canned phrase, “She’ll let you know when it’s time.”

The phrase still makes me angry. I waited and watched and listened for Sandi to let me know she was ready. She was my best girl and I would do anything for her, even the hardest thing. But when she looked into my eyes, all I saw was a dog who wanted more than anything to be by my side.

She would never be ready.

But I remembered Bama. Eventually, when my perfectly behaved dog had uncontrolled accidents in the house, and I was living in fear of her attempting the stairs on her own and falling, we called a vet who would meet us at her favorite place. 

On days I go to the barn, I walk by the spot. Sometimes I pause and remember saying goodbye to my best friend who would never have chosen to leave me. 

The One Who Taught Me Most About When To Say Goodbye

Most recently, there was Silas.

Silas lived at the barn where I kept Gideon. His owner got sick and stopped paying his board. He was abandoned.

After saying goodbye to Gideon, it became clear that I needed a horse, and Silas needed a mom. I paid his bills, and Silas joined the family. 

Silas was passive-aggressive, skeptical, and not much for affection. But when it mattered, he stepped up, taking care of me when I rode pregnant, sticking his nose into carseats to greet his new human siblings, and taking me on adventures when his chronic back issues were under control.

The next time I saw him, he was breathing a little harder than normal. I thought it odd, but tend to overthink things, so I chose to dismiss it and we went on a slow ride through the woods.

The breathing episodes would come and go, and I moved him to a barn by my house so I could take care of him. I was sure if I was in charge of his care and he was getting his daily vitamins everything would get back to normal. 

Except, it didn’t.

The episodes kept happening, progressively getting worse. I’d look at my horse withering away in the field. His bones beginning to show, and sometimes he’d even sway like he didn’t have the strength to stand. I’d cry and call a vet. The vet would give me something to try, and I’d say, “I’m going to give it one more month.”

How Do You Know When to Say Goodbye, When His Health is a Rollercoaster?

I couldn’t escape this feeling of failing my animals whom God had put me in charge of, who had brought me so much joy. 

In November I finally made the call on Silas. It was a new vet since we moved out of my regular vets jurisdiction. I didn’t tell the new guy the truth – that I expected we’d be putting Silas down when he arrived. That’s a bit much for a new client visit. 

Sunday night Silas could barely stand. It was scary to even be near him, and I was resigned. Monday morning I got to the barn early to get ready for the vet, and found a happy, almost normal Silas munching away on grass like he hadn’t been on his deathbed the night before. 

The vet spent an hour and a half telling me all the new food and hay I should put him on. Since Silas was acting normal, the only symptoms he could see were my horse’s ribs visible through his dull, furry winter coat.

That day was strange. Part of me was elated. Silas was alive, his ears were forward and the light was back in his eyes. There was hope.

Part of me felt like I was being strung up and beaten. 

Am I crazy? 

Am I causing this by being obsessive about him being sick?

Is this even real?

Is this an easy fix and I’m just missing something?

Am I just that bad at taking care of animals?

God, is this for real? Is he getting better? 

Silence.

It was the week before Christmas when I called the vet back and asked him to do a full bloodwork panel. We were in the middle of another episode, and I was prepping for a trip to visit family in Mississippi. The day before Christmas Eve, the results came in, and it wasn’t good.

To be honest, I’ve blocked most of it out. Something about white blood cells being almost nonexistent, and I think low platelets. He said I could take him to a clinic and do head-to-toe imaging to figure out the problem, but based on the blood results, the problem was bad and likely wouldn’t be fixable.

But, of course, by the time the test results came in, Silas was looking good and eating again. I decided to get another opinion. I reached out to two more vets and paid for more bloodwork, but what I really waited for was a word from God.

From the beginning, I felt like this horse was a gift from above. At a time when I needed a horse, there he was. He had carried me as I learned to be a mom and took me on adventures when I needed a change of scenery. In the last few years, I had learned to see his small tells of affection – the way he kept his eye on me even when he faced another direction or tried to tell me when he wasn’t feeling great. He seemed to feel safe and content in my presence. 

He was my gift from God, and who was I to decide it was time to euthanize him?

I needed clarity, but all I got was silence

On the week between Christmas and New Year I coordinated vet visits from 1000 miles away and tried to enjoy the trip like a life so dear to me wasn’t in limbo.

On the trip back to Virginia, with my two kids in the backseat and my husband driving, I got the email from the other vet. It didn’t look good.

There were always more suggestions, more things to try, but I knew in my gut it was just more money, more stress, more prolonging the necessary.

Writing it now, the answer seems so clear. Put the poor horse down. But I hadn’t heard from God. I didn’t have clarity. I’m a fighter. Silas is scrappy and never quits. And there were still those weeks of health and hope between the episodes. They whispered, maybe this time he’s fine. Maybe he’s better now.

As soon as we made it back to our house in Virginia, while my husband was unloading, I rushed into the basement for some privacy. I wanted to scream at God. “What is this?!” Instead, I hit my knees and cried.

“God, Silas is a gift from you. The bloodwork is bad. It seems like it’s time. But I can’t put this horse down, this gift from you, without you saying it’s ok.”

I had one more issue, though. “God, I hear you, but Silas is a gift from you. Who am I to kill a gift from my Creator?” 

This time my mind was rushed with the images of everything in my life that I loved. Is it not all a gift? He whispered.

I could only cry and whisper a thousand thank you’s.

Knowing When It’s Your Animal’s Time

You probably came to this blog post hoping for a three-step solution or something black and white. If this happens, you make the call. If your dog, cat, bearded dragon, or horse gives you this look, you’ve got to end it. (Speaking of bearded dragon, Spike had to be euthanized in December when the vet found a quarter-sized tumor in his belly. No lighting would have fixed that.)

What I’ve found is every situation is different. As the “animal person” in my household, I have decided not to make financial decisions for an animal that will jeopardize the financial well-being of my family. College savings will not be transferred to save the dog. No matter how tempting. Now matter how many tears will be shed.