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The essays in this book were edited from their original published form. No part of this publication may be translated, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, in whole or in part, electronic, or mechanical including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system without prior permission in writing from Enchanted Forest Press and Geoffrey Bain. The material in this book is furnished for informational use only and is subject to change without notice. Enchanted Forest Press assumes no responsibility for any errors or inaccuracies that may appear in the documents contained in this book.

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I dedicate this book to everyone who has faced the heartbreak of saying good-bye to their best friend…

—Dr. Alice Villalobos, DVM, DPNAP, President, Society for Veterinary Medical Ethics.

“One of the more difficult aspects of losing a pet is the fear of loneliness. The personal stories of how others have moved through the grief of losing a beloved companion in “Just One More Day” is comforting, enlightening and a reminder that you are not alone. The book covers many aspects of losing a loved pet, so that anyone can find a passage that connects and engages them.”

“Your book is a great resource for pet lover’s struggling to make the right end-of-life decisions for their companions. The combination of information from doctors, therapists and other professionals, combined with first-person stories from pet lovers strikes a good balance of fact and emotion. Your book is a support group on paper.”

“Marvelously poignant. It affected me deeply and I intend to use it as a resource for my work on “Just Answer.com”

“Everyone with a pet should own a copy of this book in their library. I will surely recommend it to my friends and clients who are in bereavement as a must read. I am including it as a valuable resource for coping with pet loss.”

“This book is a compilation of warm and loving remembrances dealing with the loss of our canine friends. Sprinkled with counseling from professionals in the field of veterinary science, psychology and education, “Just One More Day—A Dog Lovers Guide to Quality of Life and Healing From Pet Loss” is a welcome guide to assist those in need of comfort during a most difficult time.”

“There is truly no ‘one size fits all’ when it comes to dealing with making the decision to assist your animal to make its transition. Geoffrey Bain’s book ‘Just One More Day’ is a beautiful and compassionate look at the various options and points of view of many who have faced this difficult time. Thank you for all the love you put into this book”.

“This is a very useful tool for someone going through the loss of a pet. Being that I work at an animal hospital and deal with this sort of thing on a daily basis, it’s always painful and time is all that heals us. Abby’s triumph and journey is a great story on how it truly is different for every pet with every diagnosis.”

“I got this book for my kids (Yeah right . . .) when our neighbor’s dog died of cancer. It is a gem of a book, and any one story can give you the right words or perspective to ease your loved ones through the abnormally strong pain of losing a pet. It WILL bring a tear or two to your eyes, but from admiration and love of both pets and people in similar circumstances. I got sideswiped by how much this particular loss affected me, but the book helped me grieve without embarrassment and without regret, and help my children through it as well. Big thumbs up.”

“I loved the book. It has helped me understand how to make the decision to relieve the suffering of my current old dog. When the time comes, I’ll be better prepared and less selfish.”

“I read it the same evening I got it, loved it and then loaned to my neighbor, whose dog is 17 and fading fast. She also loved it and asked if her friend could read it…. It’s now on round 6 and one of these days I’ll see it again!”

“I loved the book. I wish I had it to read when I lost all of my dogs. I still miss them. You did a beautiful job”

“This book will inspire pet owners and give them peace after the loss of their best friend”

“This is a most beautifully written book. It’s going to be so wonderful for pet owners to reflect on the love of their babies.”

You have written a very important book. Every pet owner should read it. I am now able to remember with fondness rather than pain. Thank you and Bless you for this book”

“Your wonderful book brought up suppressed tears as I read it, and I know it’s helping me with a healing that continues”.

“Your book is beautiful! The advice you offer, and the many different viewpoints and perspectives make it very touching, and an extremely relevant book.

“I pray that your book circulates around the world to comfort those that are in so much pain due to a decision needing to be made or for those who have just lost a true best friend, their pet.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Geoff Bain was born in Liverpool, England and attended Liverpool Institute High School at the same time as two of the Beatles—Sir Paul McCartney and George Harrison. After some world traveling, he settled in California, and became a Real Estate Broker for thirty years. He currently resides in Southern California. The inspiration for his first book, Just One More Day, came from an uncertainty as to when it would be the right time to call the vet to say good-bye to Abby, an Australian Shepherd who had just been diagnosed with bone cancer. Abby was the first dog in Geoff’s life and she left her paw-prints on his heart. This profound experience changed his life and he is now serving others through speaking engagements, book signings and teaching others how to “Heel” a broken heart. Geoff is the CEO for WagDazzle, a new line of pet products. Please go to www.JustOneMoreDayTheBook.com to view the book trailer, read the Blog, and order more books.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Abby—

Thank you for teaching me the awesome power of unconditional love. I’ll bring another squeaky toy with me when I meet you on the Rainbow Bridge.

To Kris Harmon—

your creative genius brought this book to life.

To my focus group, Naja, Alexandra and Nancy—Thanks for all the great ideas.

To Leonard Szymczak—

Thanks for your passion, for embodying the excitement of writing.

To Margot Vincent—

an English teacher at Elmwood Franklin School in Buffalo, NY, who took the time to critique and support my endeavors.

To Clint who showered Abby with love her whole life through.

To my delectable wife, Dawn, my best friend, my companion, my cajoler—Thank you for all the gentle shoves, the insight, the deadlines, the belief, the faith and the love.

INTRODUCTION

This was the day we had dreaded for nine months. Dawn cradled Abby’s head in her lap as the vet pushed the plunger on the syringe. It was over so fast. She was gone.

Abby came into my life when I married my wife, Dawn. I had never had a dog of my own before. Abby was fun and she was part of my new family. She was an Australian/Queensland shepherd mix—a rescue dog that Dawn had loved since Abby was about 6 weeks old. Little did I realize how this dog would influence my life—forever. I never could have imagined how one slightly overweight dog would touch my heart so dearly. Uncertainty evolved into unconditional love, which is what Abby taught me to see, to share, to receive and to give. I even learned how to pick up poop without gagging. Miracles happen!

Early last year, we took Abby to get checked out for a limp that we thought was a pulled muscle or tendon. She was 12, and we thought that she was getting a little creaky in her joints. Abby was diagnosed with bone cancer (osteosarcoma) in her front left leg. This is an aggressive, highly malignant form of cancer. Surgery was not an option because Abby had too much weight in the front. Other treatments might prolong her life for a few months, but at the cost of quality of life. Our vet offered to put Abby to sleep right then and there, if we wanted. It was all too sudden for us to make any kind of decision at that moment. We were told we had maybe two more months, at best.

After the diagnosis, we were determined to make sure that Abby was really, really happy every single day that she had left. We bought her more squeaky toys, and fed her the food she begged for …the cat’s food! I took her for car rides almost every day so she could stick her head out of the window and feel the rush of wind across her nose. It’s amazing how dying makes you really want to live.

The question that was uppermost in my mind was “How do you know when it’s time to put your beloved dog to sleep?” Friends told me that I would see it in Abby’s eyes. I don’t think I ever did. All I saw was a waggy tail and “Please give me some more cat food” looks and “Let’s play more throw-theball” looks. The “It’s time for me to go” look never came. I just saw a bigger lump on Abby’s paw, indicating that the cancer was indeed spreading fast. And I saw her limp a lot more frequently, and constantly lick her paw. One afternoon, I saw her fall in the yard, and I knew that we should call the vet.

Abby left us surrounded with love. I know we did the right thing by having the vet come to our home. So often, our loved ones, our human family, want to go home to die. That’s where they feel the most love. I feel strongly that our beloved pets want that too.

It’s been over a year since we called the vet to come and help our beloved Abby across the Rainbow Bridge. I’m still haunted by the image in my mind of Abby lying on her bed after the injection. I’m still tormented by the unanswerable question “Did we do it too soon?” I still burst into tears looking at her photo.

Yet, I’m comforted by the sure and certain knowledge that we made our decision based on pure love for Abby. We wanted to spare her the additional pain of a broken leg and we accomplished that.

For a while, we made dog-barking sounds whenever the doorbell rang, because we missed Abby’s protective bark so much. Someday, maybe soon, we’ll find another dog to love. But no-one will ever replace Abby in our hearts. She was pure, unconditional love and we miss her so.

The purpose of this book was to help me heal and move through the pain of losing Abby. In doing so, I have found that it is a subject so many people suffer through, sometimes all alone. We have support when we lose a human family member. Why does it seem less significant when we lose a beloved pet? Aren’t they people too?

There is no sure way to know when it’s time. I searched for answers by writing to everyone I knew, asking for help. The response was overwhelming. Some of the stories are reprinted here. So many people voiced the ever-present pain from their decision. Others expressed excruciating and still lingering guilt over waiting too long to make their decision. My heartfelt desire is that you may find comfort and help within the pages of this book.

May your decision be a little easier, may the grief be lessened and may you be comforted in knowing that your beloved pet is waiting for you across the Rainbow Bridge—leaving love tugs in your heart and healthy paw prints in the sand.

The RAINBOW BRIDGE

When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to The Rainbow Bridge. There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together. There is plenty of food, water, and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable.

All the animals that had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor. Those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by. The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing; they each miss someone very special to them, who had to be left behind.

They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent. His eager body quivers. Suddenly he begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster.

You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart.

FURRY FACTS

• In 6 years, one unspayed female dog and her offspring can reproduce 67,000 dogs.

• 5 out of 10 dogs in shelters are euthanized because there is no-one to adopt them.

• 7 dogs and cats are born every day for each person born in the U.S. Of those, only 1 in 5 puppies and kittens stay in their original home for their natural lifetime. The remaining 4 out of 5 are abandoned in the streets or end up in a shelter.

The statistics regarding Cancer in dogs are ALARMING: Pet Cancer is on the rise.

Statistics obtained from ASPCA (aspca.org); the Humane Society of the United States; Spay USA;Pet Cancer Foundation.

The greatness of a nation and its moral progress can be judged by the way its animals are treated. I hold that, the more helpless a creature, the more entitled it is to the protection by man from the cruelty of man.

“HOW WILL I KNOW”

“How will I know when THAT day has come?” I asked my veterinarian. We had been talking about my Bassett hound, Baxter. He had been diagnosed with a debilitating and painful back problem common to most hounds—the joy of having long, heavy bodies and short legs. We both knew the time was coming to end his suffering. And also, to end ours. He was fighting valiantly, but his pain was getting worse.

“Only you can answer that,” she replied. She tugged gently at Baxter’s ear. “You will know when it is time.”

On the way home, I decided that Baxter would tell me. I didn’t know how he would tell me that it was that time, but I knew he would find a way. He had a gift for communication and I was sure he would let his feelings be known. I just had to recognize his hints and signs.

I started coping with the thought of euthanasia when I first found out about his medical condition. I knew I would do all I could to help him fight. We went to all sorts of specialists. We tried medications, herbal remedies, and even vitamins. Baxter took painful injections directly into his spine daily to get his pain under control. As his pain became more manageable, those injections were reduced. My financial resources dwindled. I even sold my back-up car and dipped into my retirement fund to keep him pain-free.

How was Baxter going to tell me it was time? I watched him closely, waiting for him to let me know. We spent as much time together as possible. Thankfully, I worked from home so he wasn’t alone during the day. We took car rides together and walks. I was slowly preparing myself for the inevitable. In the back of my mind, I was constantly wondering when and how Baxter would let me know his pain was too great and it was time for me to “help” him for the last time.

His walk became slower, but his tail was constantly wagging when we went for our walks. Baxter’s appetite was just as it had always been. I had to keep an eye on him because he would eat anything he could reach. He would even forget to use the ramps I had set up to help him get on our bed and up the steps of the front porch. Baxter’s eyes would light up when I would get his leash, or get his treats out of the pantry. I watched as he chased birds out of his backyard. Baxter was not giving me any clues it was getting close to his time for me to help him. Time marched on; I waited and kept loving him and caring for him.

Baxter had always taken his medicine so well. He never balked or complained. I didn’t even have to “ball” his pills in a treat. I would hold it in my open hand and say, “Here is your feel better num-num” and he would eat it without any problems. One day, that changed. He turned his head several times as I held out my hand with his pills on them. I coaxed him softly, promising a treat afterwards. Still, he refused. Tears streaming, the pills went back in the bottle and I headed to the telephone. “He told me it was time,” I heard myself say once the vet was on the line. “We are on our way.”

I helped Baxter into the car. He couldn’t do it himself today. I drove slowly to the vet’s office. I pulled into the driveway, but didn’t stop. I made a quick u-turn and headed to Dairy Queen. He and I always had an ice cream cone after he went to the vet. Today, we would go before the visit. I didn’t know if he knew why there was a change in our routine, but I did. I sobbed out our order of two soft-serve ice cream cones to the voice coming from the metal box. I didn’t even wait for my change after I was handed the two cones; I drove off and parked in the first spot available. Ice cream never tasted so awful. Thankfully, Baxter enjoyed his and helped me finish mine.

Working with animals for over fifteen years at that point, I knew the drill. I had participated in the euthanasia of hundreds of animals myself at the animal shelter where I had worked. I knew the procedure; I didn’t just know what to expect once it was finished. I had been present every single time one of our animals had to be “helped,” but each time I had a different reaction.

I knew I would be with Baxter, just as I had for all of my other pets. I had been with him for everything else and I would not leave Baxter to face this alone. I wasn’t sure how I would find the strength to be with him, but I knew he could not be alone. I was not going to abandon my Baxter in his last moments.

The entire staff came to the waiting room to say their good-byes to Baxter. He was an office favorite. Hugs and kisses for both of us from everyone. “You two have been so brave,” one of the teen-agers who cleaned the kennels said, hugging Baxter and shaking the paw Baxter offered him. This young man had been the one who had so gently moved Baxter when the heavy Basset couldn’t get up by himself. There wasn’t a dry eye in the building as Baxter and I made our way to the exam room.

Our vet and vet technician were waiting. The table was laid out just as I had expected. I remember looking at the needle. It was so ugly and meanlooking. I hated that needle, yet I loved it. That needle would end all his pain, unlike all the other needles we had subjected him to. With trembling hands, the vet picked up the needle and asked Baxter for his paw. He was sitting in my lap, all eighty pounds of him, but he still reached out his paw towards her, tail wagging.

“I can’t see the vein,” the vet said as she pulled the needle away from his leg. I looked up to see tears streaming down her cheeks as well. “I’m sorry. This is harder than I thought it would be.”

Seconds later, Baxter was gone. The three of us broke down, sobbing and crying. There was no comforting any of us. The tech took Baxter out of my arms. We had made arrangements for her to come to my house and help dig his grave months earlier. She had volunteered to do this. She said it helped with her grieving process. She also offered to help me gather up all of his things, when I was ready for that.

Several days passed as I walked around in a daze. I had foster animals to care for, so I was busy, but I still ached deep inside. His toys were still lying about, and his leash was still hanging on the hook by the front door. The indention of his body was still on the bed, close to his ramp. I avoided that spot. I slept on the couch for several days—couldn’t bring myself to sleep in our bed.

I cried and ate very little. I had to remember to turn off the alarms that went off when it was time for his medications. I found some peace caring for the other animals in my charge and writing all my thoughts and feelings down in the notebook I had kept. I was grieving and it would take time—lots of time. I had the blessing of coping with this for months before it actually happened, but it would still take time.

I called the vet tech and she stopped by after work to help me gather up Baxter’s things. He had been a rescue dog, like all my other non-human family members, so I decided to take them to the shelter I had saved him from. Some of his things, I kept. His leash was put into a box, as was his “bed bed” blanket and stuffed banana squeaky toy. I took the box to the shelter, explaining each item as I handed it to the volunteer who was helping me. I didn’t know her and she didn’t know me, but we both cried as I told her all about Baxter and our life together.

“It is wonderful you cared enough to let us have these things,” she told me. “He sounded like a great dog. These things will help other great dogs as they get ready to go to their homes.”

I had no intention of looking around the shelter that day. I wasn’t ready. I didn’t know if I would ever be ready. As I was leaving, I heard a howl and I felt compelled to see who was calling to me. I made my way down the wire cages until I found the owner of that howl. It was a bloodhound mix puppy. Tripping over its long ears, it ran to me. Ignoring the sign that said not to open the cage door, I scooped up that puppy.

“You must be Nadia,” I told her before even checking to see if she was a girl. I knew her name right away. She went home with me right away.

Nadia was not a replacement for Baxter. Nothing could ever replace him. I am still grieving and it has been over ten years since I “helped” him that last time. I still cope with the guilt and the sadness. The only thing that gives me any comfort is knowing his last few years were spent with me, not as a homeless pet. I also take comfort in that we both were loved and he knew I did all I could to make him happy and comfortable. I still have periods of time when I cry over my decision. This is one of those moments. I am still coping with losing him. I always will be.

Reprinted with permission, Emma Riley Sutton. First printed in “Helium”. http://www.helium.com/users/408505/show_articles

WHEN SHOULD YOU PUT YOUR DOG DOWN?

How to make a decision you never want to make.

Jack sells antiques in upstate New York; he’s a pretty upbeat guy, but when a vet diagnosed his 12-year-old black Lab, Schuyler, with cancer of the jaw and told Jack the prognosis was grim, he burst into tears, so upset he had to call his girlfriend to come drive him and the dog home. He called me later that night. Punctuated by sobs and silences, our conversation lasted nearly an hour. “I really don’t know what to do,” Jack said. “My friends say I should go to Penn or Cornell for chemo. My girlfriend says I should try alternative medicine, maybe something homeopathic. I can’t bear to think of it. When do you put a dog down? How do you decide? I can’t bear to lose him, but I don’t want him to suffer.”

We spoke three or four times over the next couple of weeks, Jack agonizing over the many options he was hearing about. The vet had urged him to euthanize the dog before Schuyler’s condition worsened, but Jack had clearly decided against that. He was apparently going to put the dog down “when he was ready,” and thought he wasn’t ready yet. One evening, he said he’d talked to a friend and dog lover who’d told him that Schuyler would tell him when it was time to go, that Jack should watch and listen to the dog for cues. He asked if I thought this was the right course.

To be honest, I couldn’t quite say what I was thinking. Each decision about the death of a dog is personal and different, dependent on context and circumstances. But if I had told him what I was thinking, it would have been this: Dogs are voiceless. They can’t tell us when it’s time to die, even if they were capable of such abstract thought. That’s something we have to decide for them, wielding our love, compassion, and common sense as best we can. I didn’t look to my wonderful yellow Labs to tell me when it was time for them to go, one diagnosed with congestive heart failure, the other with colon cancer. The responsibility and decision, it seemed to me, was mine, not theirs. I put them down before they endured any prolonged suffering—my own choice, not a recommendation for others. In the context of the most personal decision any dog owner ever makes, there are few universal truths. Jack ended up keeping Schuyler alive for two months, until the dog’s jaw had swollen to grapefruit size. When he called me again, I told him it seemed time, and he put the dog to sleep. Later, he called this the most wrenching period of his life, so painful he’d decided never to get another dog. I told him that was a shame.

It is the nature of dogs to live much shorter lives than ours—just eight years, on average—and it has always been my belief that to love and own a dog is to understand and accept that along with loyalty, love, and devotion come the ever-present specters of grief and loss. This is as integral a part of the dog-loving experience as going for walks.

There’s no Idiot’s Guide for this question, no handbook. The many points of view are strongly held. One vet I know says a dog should be euthanized “when it can no longer live the life of a dog—and only the owner knows when that really is.” A breeder says she puts her dogs down when “their suffering exceeds their ability to take pleasure in life.” A trainer I respect believes her dog should live as long as it can eat.

Another friend and dog lover says she always knows when it’s time: “when the soul goes out of their eyes.”

I’m not among those who believe dogs have souls, but I know what she means. There is a certain visceral “dogness” about dogs, an interest in people, food, squirrels, passing trucks—whatever—that’s part of their individual spirits. When that disappears, it does seem the “soul” of the dog is gone.

But I know other owners—a growing number, according to vets—who fight to keep their dogs alive as long as possible, at all costs.

Researching my last book, I visited an emergency-care clinic that had six dogs on respirators at a cost of nearly a $1,000 per week per dog.

Their owners, the vets said, simply could not bear to lose them. In the context of America’s growing love affair with dogs—there are nearly 70 million owned dogs in the United States and nearly 10 million more in shelters—this seems to me a travesty, not only for the dogs but for the humans who’ve lost sight of the fact that these amazing creatures are animals.

Increasingly, we’ve come to see our dogs as human, childlike members of our families, companions that sometimes provide us with more emotional support than friends or spouses, more satisfaction than work, more support than we can find elsewhere. As a result, people are increasingly devastated by the loss of their dogs; more uncertain about how and when to put them down, more inclined to spend thousands of dollars on surgery, alternative cures, foods, and treatments that might prolong their lives.

As the owner of three dogs, I spend more than I can truly afford to keep them healthy and vigorous. But as my conversations with Jack reminded me, they are not people. Their lives and deaths ought not be conflated or confused with human losses.

To love dogs is to know death and to accept that there’s never a time we are more morally obliged to speak for them than when they face the end of their lives.