Our Animals

The stories in this section were written by Carol Miller, DVM, a veterinarian. When I met Carol, I knew right away that I wanted her to be a part of Spiritual Dying.

Early in Dr. Miller’s career, a neighbor asked her to euthanize his dying dog at home. She observed first-hand how peaceful the experience was for the dog in contrast to dying in a clinical hospital setting. In time, she launched a mobile veterinary practice, specializing in at-home pet euthanasia. It was founded in the conviction that our beloved and selfless animal companions are deserving of a peaceful passing in the safe, loving and familiar surroundings of home and family.

Our pets touch our hearts, and through the stories Carol writes, she will help you find peace and understanding with the death of your pet.

Carol received her veterinary degree from Colorado State University College of Veterinary Medicine and Biomedical Sciences in 1986. She has lived and practiced in Colorado, New Mexico and Pennsylvania. During her 35-year career, she has worked in clinical practice, volunteered with animal rescue and wildlife rehabilitation organizations and operated her own mobile practice. She has a daughter, a son, and twin grandchildren, who are the lights of her life.

Buddy’s Story

I was working temporarily at a clinic while my colleague was on maternity leave. The morning rush of appointments was winding down, so I sat at my desk and reviewed my case records, making additional entries in most of them. We had kept up a grueling pace all morning, and I hadn’t had time to complete them between appointments.

Most of the office staff had left for lunch. I was on duty, and I was grateful for the extra quiet time. Pamela, one of the technicians, entered the room leading a geriatric German Shepherd/Collie mixed breed dog on a leash. As they slowly advanced towards me from across the room, I noticed that he was barely able to lift his back legs. “This is Buddy. He’s here to be euthanized. His owners couldn’t stay,” Pamela informed me in response to my quizzical look. I wasn’t aware that Buddy had been dropped off and his humans had already gone.

I had not seen him before today, and I wished I had the opportunity to speak with them in person. The other veterinarian in the practice had been treating him for severe osteoarthritis and incontinence and had concurred with their decision to have him euthanized. Thus began my brief but lasting connection with Buddy who became one of my greatest teachers.

Pamela handed me his records as I knelt down on the floor to greet him. “I’m going to lunch,” she added wearily. “Oh, and he’s deaf.”

Buddy, gray-muzzled, patiently allowed me to examine him. His thigh muscles had atrophied as well as the muscles along his lower back. Judging from the worn down nails of his back paws, he had been dragging his feet for some time. His arthritis was very advanced, and I suspected he was developing partial paralysis in his spine as well, which would explain his incontinence. His eyes were clouded by cataracts and his body was failing, but still he carried himself with quiet dignity. It was time to gently release him from the continual pain and struggle he was experiencing.

I led Buddy into the surgery room, closed the door and turned off the fluorescent overhead light. The sunlight streaming through the window was natural, soothing. I eased Buddy onto the floor and sat cross-legged in front of him. Although he was deaf, I spoke softly to him as he gazed at me peacefully. There was no doubt in my mind that he understood what our coming together meant. By now, my concerns of the morning had faded away. All that mattered was this moment in time. We sat together in stillness as peace enveloped us. I held Buddy’s front paw and began to slowly administer the euthanasia injection into his vein. Within seconds, he slowly lowered his head onto my knee, and his breathing became shallow.

What happened next was one of the most memorable moments of my lifetime. Buddy gently lifted his head as though someone had just called his name and gazed with loving recognition directly past me at the ceiling above us. So deliberate was his response, I automatically paused and looked up, half expecting to see something. Though I felt that something miraculous was happening, I didn’t see or hear anything. The call was meant for him alone. A call that transcended his body’s failing senses but was nonetheless just as real to him. Once again, his head came to rest on my knee, and his breathing stopped.

As Buddy’s spirit eased away, I sat there and marveled at the gift that had been presented to me. The gift of witnessing what I had already felt to be true – No one dies alone. We all receive loving guidance during our passage from our material bodily existence into spirit form. Buddy demonstrated to me that all beings – every one of us – is known, cared for and deeply cherished.