Farewell to Pete the Vet’s beloved dog Finzi: the end of a good life, lived to the full

I have sad news to report: my beloved dog Finzi has passed away. This happened over six months ago, and up until now, I have not felt up to writing about it. But she was such a popular dog on my Facebook page that I feel I need to let people know about the final chapter of her life.

Old age had been taking its toll on finzi

Finzi was thirteen years old,and as was normal for an older, Labrador-type dog, she had slowed up. She no longer chased balls with enthusiasm. She had started to stroll behind us on walks, instead of charging ahead and to the left and right, as in the past. She spent more time snoozing in her bed, and less time engaging with the world in a busy,active way.
I had checked her over carefully, and there was nothing obvious wrong with her. No pain in her joints which would have suggested arthritis. No abnormalities on her blood profile or urine tests. My conclusion was that she was just getting older: this is what old age decline looks like in Labrador-sized dogs.
She also became a fussier eater, not uncommon in older dogs. She stopped finishing her high-end kibble and we had to offer her sachets or tins of moist food (which tends to be more palatable than dry food). Even then, she began to lose weight. I was concerned, and I was going to repeat the usual tests to make sure that I wasn’t missing anything.

I knew it was bad when Finzi refused to eat

One Friday she ate nothing all day. Nothing at all. Not even morsels of freshly cooked chicken, which she would have dived into back in her prime. When she refused to touch her breakfast on the Saturday morning, I decided that it was time to step in. I took her down to my clinic and ran the usual battery of tests that are standard for this type of scenario. Blood and urine samples, followed by x-rays and an ultrasound scan.
The news was bad: she had elevated liver enzymes. The Xray showed that she had a solid mass as big as a grapefruit in the front of her abdomen, and the scan confirmed that this was a pancreatic tumour. She also had free fluid in her abdomen, which is generally a sign of serious abdominal pathology.

If she could, would Finzi choose further investigations?

At this stage, I had to make a decision. I could send her on to a specialist for a CT or MRI scan to get more detail about the pancreatic tumour. I could even carry out an exploratory laparotomy, opening her up to see if the tumour could be successfully removed (this was highly unlikely: most pancreatic tumours are malignant cancers).
I sat with Finzi for a while, and we had a body language conversation. I told her she was a good girl, and she stood up and wagged her tail weakly before flopping down again. I looked in her eyes, and she looked back at me with a far away, slightly anxious expression. I knew what was going on; I have seen this so many times before. She was aware that there was something unusual going on inside her; she felt “wrong”, and she wasn’t happy about it. Dogs live in the moment; they are experts in focussing on the “now”, what is really going on in the immediate present. And for Finzi, “now” no longer felt good. If she could have spoken, she would have asked me to take that strange feeling of “not rightness” away.
I was concerned about the complications of the “further investigations” option. Finzi would have to be left with people she didn’t know, in a strange building, and she would be submitted to others for a number of hours. If she did have an operation, this would involve cutting into her abdomen, removing the tumour and sewing her up again. She would definitely go through a difficult time. At the end of this, I would know more. But would I be able to cure her, or give her a significant amount of extra, good quality life?
My conclusion was “no”. My fear was that Finzi would experience a difficult period of strangeness, fear and discomfort, and the final conclusion was likely to be the same.

My family agreed: it was time to say goodbye

I talked to my family, and we all agreed: it would be kinder and easier for Finzi to simply take her home, let her spend time with Kiko and the cats, let her meander around the garden one more time, and then help her exit her life in a painless, peaceful way. This was the only way that I could be certain that her uncomfortable feeling of being “wrong” inside could be kept to a minimum.
Our family gathered around her at home that evening, and I gave her the final injection. As the lethal fluid entered her vein, her anxious expression relaxed, and her body slumped. She looked at peace; if she could have spoken to me, I know that this is what she would have wanted.
It was difficult for us all, but it would have been even more difficult to watch her suffer. She had loved her life. She had nearly died as a young dog but we had saved her, and she had made the most of her thirteen years with us. But it was time for her to go.
There is no easy way, but of all the possible outcomes, we knew that this was the best one for her.

Finzi has gone, but she is still with us

Her ashes now sit on my desk. We need to do something with them; we will probably scatter some of them in her favourite places, and bury the bulk of them in our back garden “pet cemetery”. It will rekindle difficult emotions when we do this, so for now, she is safe and secure by my side.
Finzi: you were a remarkable dog, and you will always be missed by the Wedderburn family.