Austin’s quality of life had declined to the point where he needed round-the-clock care.

It had been three months since we moved from our upstairs master bedroom to the living room downstairs so he could be closer to the yard. We were hand-feeding him, bottle-feeding him, constantly changing his pads, and giving him washcloth baths on his bed every night because he could no longer make it to the shower like he used to before bedtime.

Taking a quick rinse before bed had been part of his routine since he was a puppy. He had struggled with skin issues his entire life and that nightly rinse always helped keep him comfortable.

Most of the time we would find him asleep or just gazing into nothingness. He wasn’t having fun anymore. The smile and sparkle he once had were gone.

It wouldn’t have been fair to keep him suffering just because we wanted him to stay with us a little longer.

Dr. G explained the next steps and I made one thing clear right away. I wanted to be there with him when it happened.

My wife and my mom wanted to be there for him as well, so the three of us followed the staff into the other room where Austin would spend his final moments.

It was a large, dimly lit room with the blinds closed. There was a sofa, an armchair, and a small coffee table with a box of tissues sitting in the middle.

The room felt quiet, still, heavy with emotion.

And then the door opened.

The receptionist walked into the room carrying a binder with the Euthanasia Consent Form and the service packages they offered. As I read through the paperwork, my hands were shaking so bad I could barely hold the pen. My mind felt completely numb. I just kept staring at the signature line thinking, This is it… how am I supposed to sign my name right now?

I couldn’t bring myself to sign my name on that paperwork. No, not for this. When I finally tried, I ended up doing a quick squiggle that barely resembled my signature. I handed the binder back to the receptionist and asked my wife to pick out his urn.

I couldn’t even look at the options. It was all too much for me to take in at once.

A few minutes later, the technicians came in carrying Austin on a blanket. Seeing him lying there like that broke my heart. He looked so still, so tired, with a catheter placed in his left arm.

He was the kind of dog who could take sedatives and still need someone to hold him back because he was so strong. Every sight and sound put him on high alert, which is why he had to wear his face mask in public, for both his protection and everyone else’s.

They gently laid him down on the ground so we could be close to him.

Before leaving the room, they handed us a small remote control and said that we could take as much time as we needed to say goodbye. And when we were ready, all we had to do was press the button and Dr. G would come back in.

So we sat with him. 

We talked to him, held him, and said the words no one ever wants to say.

And then something unexpected happened. My mom leaned in close to him and somehow Austin lifted his head just enough to give her a kiss. They had always shared a special bond and in that moment it felt like he was saying goodbye in the only way he could.

He gave each of us a moment of our own that morning. A quiet goodbye in his own way, one last connection before it was time to let him go.

When the time finally came, my wife pressed the button, and a few minutes later Dr. G returned carrying a tray with three syringes.

She explained each step carefully.

The first injection would be a sedative solution, which would put Austin into a deep sleep so he wouldn’t feel anything. The second would be the euthanasia solution, which would stop his heart and brain function. The last was a flushing solution to make sure everything moved through as it should.

She then looked at me and asked, “Are you ready?” 

I will never be ready, but I took a deep breath, looked back down at Austin, nodded, and quietly said “Yes.”

As she began administering the injections, I felt completely empty. Part of me still couldn’t believe this was actually happening. Everything in me wanted to fall apart, but I held it together. I needed to stay strong for him so he would feel calm, so he would know everything was okay.

I rubbed his belly and stroked his head as Dr. G gave the injections one by one. 

After a minute or two, she placed her stethoscope on his chest and listened for his heartbeat. She checked his breathing, gently tapped his eyes, and after a quiet pause softly said, “He’s gone.”

I kept my hand on him a little longer, trying to hold on to the warmth that had been part of our lives for so many years. Before standing up, I lowered my head to his face and whispered, “I’ll meet you at the rainbow bridge when it’s my time.” 

And just like that, my world felt different.

Austin gave us a lifetime of loyalty, laughter, and unconditional love. Saying goodbye to him was one of the hardest things we have ever had to do, but I know we gave him that same love in return. 

In the end, that’s what mattered most.