Saying goodbye to our beloved Ivy
Yesterday was one of the hardest days I've ever had. Ivy has been my friend since 2016. She was there for me when Archie died in 2019, only months before the pandemic started. I never once felt lonely over two years of working from home and then studying from home while my partner was out working each day. She comforted me while he was ill and quarantining for weeks in another room, helped me adjust to moving from an apartment we had lived in for eight years, and celebrated with us when we got engaged. There were so many times I thought I would have to say goodbye, from her cancer in 2020 that had her in the hospital three times, including for an emergency spay, to the removal of a different cancer in 2021, and all the worry in between with ultrasounds and what they would find at different stages. When I found her tumor in January, I knew that at the age of six, it was likely that goodbye was near. She made it almost another two months, and even when we thought it was finally time, she proved us wrong and made it another two weeks. I've experienced a lot of anticipatory grief, but how do you comfort yourself when the friend who you always went to for cuddles is the one you have lost, and the one you can't ever go to again?
The day before Ivy's passing was filled with many tears. We cuddled, played, I pet her as she napped next to me and I studied, and most of all we just spent every minute of the day together. We'd been doing that a lot, to the point where if I put her back in her house to take care of her business, she would do whatever she needed to do and then hop back up on the bars and make it clear she wanted to come back with me again. She lost her sister two years ago, and we grew closer as we kept each other company through that loss. The last two hours before we went to sleep, we just held her and loved her, and tried not to dwell on the fact that although she was happy, we were ending her life the next day.
The morning of her euthanasia, I woke up at 6am, and woke up Ivy. I tried to get her to pee but she was so sleepy she that just darted back to her hut to go back to bed. So instead I wrapped her in a blanket and brought her back to bed with me. We slept for another hour, at which point Ivy expressed interest in some food. I gave her one of her favorite treats, a vitamin C tablet, and gave her her pain medication. I liked to give it to her with a snack and then wait an hour before a big meal so it could sink in before her GI tract started having to work hard. We dozed off for another hour and whenever I woke up during that time, I could see Ivy leaning against my chest, her eyes half closed but gazing up at me.
Around 8am, I gave her breakfast: fresh lettuce and a cherry tomato. I recorded the sounds of her chewing away while I brushed my teeth. While I got dressed and she munched on some timothy hay, I recorded those sounds as well. After that, I took her out of her house for the last time and we cuddled and played for another two hours. She had a slice of red pepper on the bed and I recorded a video of her eating it with contentment. It broke my heart that everything I was doing with her was the last time I would do it with her. I took her to the living room where she had a blanket, large box with holes to dart through and hide, and some toys and food. She played and snacked for a while while we pet her and watched her be very happy.
But it made me feel I was tricking her, because she was having an amazing morning being spoiled and doted on by her family and wasn't suffering or expressing any pain at all, but in a couple hours she would be dead. I tried to remember that although she wasn't behaving sick, she was sick, and we were saying goodbye to save her the pain and suffering she would feel if we waited until our hands were forced. But it is so hard to say goodbye when all days seem to be good days filled with a strong appetite, high energy, and good spirits – regardless of the fact that her tumor was very large and aggressively growing, the stool she passed was often unhealthy, and she did still feel pain at random intervals despite her medication. I just can't know if dying before it got worse was what she would have wanted, if she could know what was going on.
We took a family portrait together, which was the last thing on my bucket list with her. When the vet called to say she would arrive in half an hour, that's when the real remorse and sadness set in, because there was no going back. We hugged Ivy and held her close. Strangely she got very anxious at one point, darting around from one spot to the next, hiding in her enclosure only to dart out and give a sniff to her pellets and nervously duck under her box. I think she knew her bowel movements were starting soon after all the food that morning, and she was looking for a place to hunker down.
When the vet arrived, Chris went out and got her. We wore masks given that we are still in a pandemic. The vet introduced herself as Dr. Adria and she was very kind and gentle throughout the whole visit. I was so broken up that I didn’t have the voice to introduce myself in return. She kneeled beside me on the living room floor as I held Ivy and allowed Dr. Adria to pet her. We spoke a little bit about the procedure as I tried to soothe Ivy in my arms.
Eventually we moved into the bedroom, where we had set up a special place on the bed to say goodbye. We laid out her favorite blankets, including a soft polka dot baby blanket that Ivy slept under every night. I had done a portrait of Ivy and her late sister Archie when I first learned her tumor had returned, and propped that up against a pillow. We also surrounded the blankets with small mementos, such as guinea pig related decor, a couple of ceramic figurines that looked like Ivy and Archie, and some paw prints from Archie and ones that we had done with Ivy a few weeks before. We also had a bouquet of lilies, daisies, carnations, and a rose beside the bed. We took some time to pet Ivy and show her our affection again, as it was our last chance to do so before she started to get sleepy. Throughout this time, Chris dispensed her a couple slices of raspberry to keep her busy and happy. Chris and Dr. Adria processed our payment while I tried to focus all of my attention on sweet little Ivy.
When we were ready, Dr. Adria had me hold Ivy as she administered the first injection, which was a mixture of a sleep medication and pain medication. This was to help her relax and drift off and to prevent any pain from the final injection. Ivy panicked when she felt the prick and ran toward me trying to get away from the needle. I held her tightly as Dr. Adria administered the first dose. Once that was over, Dr. Adria said she would give us some time to sit with her while she prepared to collect a couple of extra mementos for us. Chris had given her another slice of raspberry before the shot, and afterwards we gave it to her again and she resumed her snack. She finished it and appeared satisfied and fairly over the panic from moments before. We pet her lovingly as she continued grinding down the seeds from the berry with her back teeth.
As the moments passed, she very slowly seemed to calm even more; her eyes relaxed, her posture loosened, and she gazed at us with apparent contentment. Dr. Adria had shared that each animal is different in terms of how quickly they accept the effects of the medication. Ivy did not seems nervous at any point and all we sensed from her was trust and relaxation. As the minutes passed, her head slumped a bit and she rested her chin on the blanket in front of her. She looked as she did any time that she was very sleepy. I tried not to think about how we would never again see her lift her head with alertness. Later on, I spoke to Chris about whether he thought she was aware of us at the end. He said he thought she was. Just like if someone was stroking your hair as you fall asleep, you may not be conscious once you do, but you would still be aware of the comforting presence.
Dr. Adria returned with a could pieces of clay that had been cut out into uniform circles and placed on two small clipboards. I very gently lifted Ivy’s body so that Dr. Adria could press her right front paw onto the center of the clay and make an imprint. We did the same with her left paw and decided that the latter came out better. Dr. Adria set them aside in the kitchen as we continued to pet Ivy, who had gotten sleepier still, then she returned with a set of clippers. She first turned them on to see if the sound would upset Ivy, but she did not appear perturbed, so I lifted up some of the longest fur on Ivy’s back so that Dr. Adria could clip a small chunk and save it for us in a little plastic case.
She returned a few minutes later to see how Ivy was doing and to test if she could feel any pain. She did this by gently pressing into the pads of her back right foot for a reaction. She twitched, almost as one does as a reflex, so we decided to give her some more time for the medicine to keep sinking in. By this point, Ivy was getting very sleepy, and perhaps she was fully asleep, or at least not very aware of what was happening. This was one of the hardest parts, to not know is she was really with us anymore, at least consciously. We pulled our masks down and gave her kisses, and at one point I lifted her up with her blanket and set her on my shoulder so that her bottom was supported by one hand and I could pet her with the other, while we sat cheek to cheek. This also allowed her to face the double windows where her enclosure had been for a year and a half. Chris also held her in his arms with her blankets. We were both crying profusely.
When Dr. Adria, returned and again checked her foot for a response, she was still feeling a tickle, so she asked us if we would be okay with administering a second smaller dose of the first medication. She had also tested her response to different kinds of pressure on her chest, which was where the eventual final shot would be administered. After this, Ivy was clearly on cloud 9. Her head was slumped to the side, and we could see the whites of one of her eyes as she wasn’t focusing on anything. Her breath was slow, at a similar rate to a human’s, but as we watched her diaphragm expand and contract, her breathing seemed rather mechanical, in that her breaths were short and efficient.
Dr. Adria checked a couple more times to see her response to pain, and eventually she didn’t react at all. Her body was very limp, unlike the rigidity and uprighted-ness to which we were accustomed. She was now lying on her side, as she had not rolled back to her front when her tummy had been checked for any responses. Chris and I held her and pet her some more, and I whispered gently to her in hopes that she could still hear me. When we were ready, we nodded to Dr. Adria and she administered the final injection, a foggy pink liquid in a surprisingly large syringe for Ivy’s size. Chris later reflected that this was reassuring to him, as there was no doubt that it would take affect without complication. I noted that the needle had to be inserted in surprisingly far to her chest cavity, and was relieved how diligent Dr. Adria had been with checking her for pain. Ivy did not react at all. Dr. Adria quickly let us have some time to sit with Ivy as she passed, which were some of the hardest moments. We knew we only had moments left with her, that it was done and we could do nothing at all to turn back, and frankly, she was mostly gone already. I alternated between watching her eyes, where I hoped some piece of her could still see me close to her, and noting the rise and fall of her diaphragm as it got more and more subtle and hard to detect. I recall watching my dog Dewey’s nose twitching with his last breaths when we had put him down 11 years before, until suddenly they just stopped. But Ivy’s breaths were so small already that this was undetectable. We continued to pet her over and over, saying comforting things and giving her kisses. Then Dr. Adria returned with a stethoscope, and with care, very patiently listened to her for what felt like 30 seconds. When she was done, she gently retracted the stethoscope, took it from her ears, and said with reassuring calmness, “She is at peace.” It was exactly at noon.
She said to take all the time we needed, and she would be in the parking lot to give us some space. As soon as she left, I broke out into sobs and we both cried. We continued to pet her, and I wondered if some piece of her was still there somehow, needing comfort. So she wouldn’t get cold, we covered her body with her soft blanket, with her face poking out, and continued to pet her.
When we felt ready, Chris went out and got Dr. Adria. She returned with a soft fleece blanket and let me pick up Ivy and put her on it. She very longingly swaddled her in the blanket, which was comforting because it was a cold day and there were some snow flurries. She offered to let me carry her out to the car, which I did. It was a solemn, but very regal procession as the three of us slowly carried her across the lot. Dr. Adria had prepared a firm cushion on the passengers seat of her car, which had a dip in the middle to ensure Ivy’s body would stay secure. I placed her on the cushion, lowered my mask, and gave her one final kiss on the nose. We thanked Dr. Adria for everything she had done, and she reviewed the timelines for Ivy’s private cremation and when we could retrieve her remains. We went back into the house, and watched her drive away with Ivy carefully wrapped beside her in the front seat. As she passed the window, I said, “Bye bye, Ivy.”
We had discussed many times after suffering the loss of Archie, that we weren't ready to get another pet. While I did for a short time look on the MSPCA Animal Shelter website for potential candidates, we didn't get another friend for Ivy because after the pandemic hit, I was home with her every single day and we kept worrying she wouldn't make it much longer due to her various health troubles. Most troubling of all, I have been a pet owner consistently since I was six years old, but the loss after each one never gets any easier. I don't feel like I can open my heart again for a little while, until I know I can handle all of the stress and eventual grief. I also worry about again having a full-time job where I won’t have the freedom to whisk my pets to vet appointments at a moment’s notice – it’s not like one regularly works from home as a librarian. What if, even if we adopt another set of pigs, after five good years, they also experience health issues that require constant monitoring and care? How can I be sure that I will be able to provide that without knowing what our future looks like? I suppose one comfort is that the service we used for the euthanasia, Lap of Love, also provides hospice care. Perhaps Dr. Adria or someone like her could help us with something like that one day.
We decided to take apart Archie and Ivy's beloved house last night as a way to protect our hearts from the pain of constantly thinking she was there on the other side of the room, or hearing little creaks or noises from that corner that made our hearts skip with the thought that she is drinking water from her bottle, or chewing on the bars for a snack. That happened so many times just in the few hours it remained empty. It is hard to see her life, all her blankets and toys and supplies, all packed up in a corner when she so recently and for so long filled them with so much life. But we will not get rid of them. We don't want to give up on the idea that one day maybe our hearts will have healed and we can extend our love for Archie and Ivy into another friendship.
I feel exhausted just sitting with the shades drawn open and staring at the sunlight outside. It feels mocking to me as my heart feels blown open with loss, knowing that I will never again hold Ivy close to me, comfort her, or be comforted by her. I just want to lie in bed and sleep so I don't have to feel the weight of it all.
