Apollo’s Final Chapter | Saying Goodbye To Your Dog

I’ve been telling myself I need to write this blog post for the last few weeks, but I just hadn’t even figured out where to start. Saying goodbye to your dog is such a personal topic. So I guess I’ll explain why I felt the need to write about losing Apollo.

When I first shared Apollo’s lymphoma story, I did it for two reasons: first and foremost, I wanted to be a tool or helping hand to others who might be going through the same thing. I felt very lucky to have a team of people in the veterinary field, my own years’ of experience in the veterinary industry, and an extremely supportive group of friends and family.

But I know not a lot of people get to have that. A lot of people are facing this decision, this devastating loss, alone. And I want to be able to be a line of support for them. For you.

However, just because I had that line of support and that knowledge, it doesn’t mean making the decision to say goodbye was any easier. Because yes, we had to make the decision to humanely euthanize our sweet baby boy at only 5-years old.

How To Know When It’s Time To Say Goodbye To Your Dog

Now, I know that title might be a little misleading. No blog or person should ever be able to tell you exactly when it’s time. Your veterinarian, your friends, and your family might be able to guide you, but ultimately, that decision will be up to you.

For us, our main goal from the day Apollo was diagnosed with lymphoma to his last day by our sides was to keep him happy and comfortable. Oftentimes in veterinary medicine, you see owners hanging on to their pets who are suffering or in pain just because that decision is almost impossible to make.

But we knew we would have to make it if only to not let Apollo suffer a single day on this planet.

After he came out of remission, we knew our days with him were extremely limited. We wanted to live each day like it was his last, while also keeping a close eye on him and his comfort levels.

It wasn’t until about a month and a half after his “relapse’, as we’ll call it, that we started noticing some signs that we knew meant we were getting closer to the end.

Apollo’s lymph nodes kept swelling, which in turn would make him extra drooly, made him snore more frequently and much more loudly, and he started doing a little cough every once in a while, which we knew was from his nodes compressing his trachea.

So we monitored him. For about two months after his relapse, he was his old self. Playing, romping, snuggling, and being as happy as could be. But in the last week of July, we started noticing some signs that broke our hearts.

He was more sleepy than normal. Some days he just wanted to lay on the couch. Every few days he wouldn’t finish his food, which was very unusual for him. He started having a little more difficulty breathing in the sweltering Texas heat.

But it wasn’t until one night that we knew the decision had to be made. We had been out for dinner, and when we got home, we noticed Apollo had had a massive accident in our bedroom. While cleaning it up, he also proceeded to vomit up his dinner in the living room.

I called my vet sobbing — “what’s wrong with him? Is it time? How do I know when it’s time?”

My biggest concern was that I didn’t want him to suffer, but I also didn’t want to make a premature decision and waltz him into the clinic when it wasn’t quite time.

“You will know”, he said. He also said that his accidents were likely caused by the lymphoma spreading to his intestines. And I felt awful. How could I have not thought that his insides were also hurting?

That day, Apollo felt so bad. He didn’t mean to have an accident. He felt guilty. We snuggled hard that night, him, because he felt bad for the mess he had caused, and me because I knew this would be one of the last few nights that I would have to sleep next to my big boy.

That was Sunday. I scheduled our appointment for that Wednesday, knowing that we could either move it forward or push it back depending on how he was doing.

This is where my advice comes in: listen to your gut. You, and solely you, know your dog better than anyone else. As difficult as saying goodbye to your dog will be, it is your responsibility to look for the signs and act on them.

The signs are different per dog, but I think we can all agree that our number one goal is to make sure our precious pups are happy, comfortable, and healthy.

We didn’t want Apollo to suffer, and if that meant suffering ourselves out of grief and pain from losing our best friend, then so be it. It wasn’t about us. It was about him. Making that decision was the last show of love and appreciation we made for our big guy.

Our Last Day

As difficult as it is for me to write about this, I also kind of love it. I love reliving the memories we made on those last few days with Apollo. So, don’t mind me, just sobbing with a smile on my face as I type this.

Monday and Tuesday went by almost normally. I took the week off of work so that I could spend basically every waking moment with my boy. We went swimming, romped at the park, and even had a few of our closest friends come over to throw one last “hurrah” for our gentle giant. He loved it. A party just for him? It was his dream come true.

But waking up that Wednesday was a completely different story. I woke up with a pang in my chest as I had never felt before. Apollo, laying next to me snoring, had no idea the mental struggle I was enduring at that very moment.

It was the last morning I’d get to wake up to his stupid face sleeping upside-down next to mine. The last time I’d be able to “big spoon” him, as was his favorite. It was the last time I’d be able to say “are you hungry?” and watch him shoot off the bed so he could go outside and get ready for our morning ritual: food.

After watching him for a few minutes that morning, we knew we had made the right call. His breathing was heavier, his demeanor a little slower. He was uncomfortable, we could feel it.

We got up bright and early so that we could make the most of our day. Our appointment was at 3:30 PM.

After feeding the crew, we left Brooklyn and Cooper at home, each with a bone, and went out with Apollo.

Our first stop was Zilker Park, for one last romp before the heat got too bad. We found a little spot in the shade and watched our big boy roll around on the grass like he did every time we visited Zilker. The Austin skyline towering behind him was one of my favorite views.

After about 20-minutes at Zilker (dang was it hot that day), we went over to a pet store and let Apollo pick out whatever he wanted. He chose two dog toys, a blue dinosaur, and a little sock monkey, as well as a femur bone.

Then, we went to one of the few breweries that allowed dogs inside and was open that early, Hopsquad Brewing.

It was our ritual, you see? Apollo loved visiting breweries with us, especially those where he could go inside and lay on the cold, hard brewery floor. Although I will say, near the end of his life, he was soo picky about where he could lay that we started bringing a little dog bed with us everywhere we went.

You could say he was spoiled.

We enjoyed a beer at Hopsquad, and by enjoy, I mean we struggled to drink it because the lump in our throats was so big. I couldn’t help but check the time every few minutes, and as I saw the time ticking away, I fell deeper and deeper into a hole of despair.

How was I supposed to wrap my head around the fact that these were the last few hours that I would ever spend with my boy?

After the brewery, we went back home to “relax” and spend the last few hours as a family of five. We laid on the floor, snuggling and giving him all the treats we could find.

I tried so hard to keep it together that day, to not cry and be upset in front of him, because he always knew. And he always wanted to make me feel better. But this day wasn’t about him, it was about him.

But, alas, I couldn’t keep it together. So I cried, and he licked my tears. I held him, cherishing the last few minutes before it was time to go.

But the time came. And my heart shattered.

Saying Goodbye

Having been in the veterinary industry for 6+ years, I had experienced my fair share of euthanasias. Hundreds, maybe even thousands of them. But nothing will ever prepare you for when it’s your own dog, your own baby laying on that blanket.

I do want to put a little trigger warning here: I am going to talk about our experience, without getting into too much of the “details”. I think it’s important for people to know what the experience is like because a lot of times it isn’t explained. So if you don’t want to read about this, skip forward to the section labeled “Healing”.

When we walked into the vet, they had a separate room for us to go into, already lined with blankets and beds for Apollo to be able to lay on. We had stopped at McDonald’s on our way in, so Apollo was peppy after getting an ice cream cone all to himself.

Our vet gave us some time to just get situated and make our boy feel comfortable. Then, they took him to the treatment area to place an IV catheter where the drugs would be administered later.

Afterward, he was brought back into our room where we sat for maybe 30-minutes, talking, snuggling, smooching his stupid floppy lips, and just enjoying these last few moments.

And this is where everything kind of goes blurry. Our vet asked if we were ready, and while that’s a very loaded question (of course we weren’t ready, but what option did we have?), we knew we couldn’t sit around forever.

We were as ready as we’d ever be.

Our vet likes to administer Propofol, a type of sedative, before giving the euthasol, a pink drug given to humanely stop their hearts. I highly recommend finding a vet that gives this sedative, as it makes the experience so much calmer and more peaceful in my opinion.

Apollo was given the sedative and he started getting sleepy. He tried to fight it off, which, of course, he did. He was the most stubborn dog that ever existed. Once he was more relaxed, we knew it was time.

I still remember those last few moments, Apollo licking my face through my mask (thanks, COVID), my husband silently crying next to me. I kept kissing Apollo’s head, in that spot right between his eyes on his forehead. That was his favorite spot.

After years and years of being by families’ sides when they said goodbye to their pets, seeing that little syringe with the pink liquid broke me. I buried my face into Apollo’s, kissing him and loving on him until his very last breath.

Euthasol is so peaceful, it’s almost like they are just falling asleep, with their breathing getting a little deeper which each breath.

It felt like we were there for hours. Just Apollo, my husband, and I, as we laid over our boy and cried. I don’t think I’ve ever cried more in my life.

The hardest part for me was leaving. Getting up off the floor and walking out of the clinic. Leaving our big boy, who appeared to be “sleeping” comfortable behind.

I don’t know how we got ourselves off the floor. I truly don’t. We could’ve stayed there forever, just holding our baby one last time. It could’ve been 20-minutes, it could’ve been three hours. I’m not quite sure.

But get up we did. The two of us trying to support the other, trying to be strong for each other, even though inside we were absolutely broken. It felt like we were leaving a piece of our world behind in that room.

I remember backing out of the clinic and turning to look into the room, to see if we could get one last glimpse of him. We couldn’t, but I think that was better. We had already said our goodbyes.

But still, we whispered “bye, Apollo” as we drove away, heading home to our new reality.

Healing

I don’t really remember much else from that day, aside from two things: our sweet friends stopped by and brought us dinner. I remember standing at the door, accepting the food, and then just walking back inside. It felt weird not inviting them in, but at the same time, I didn’t really want anyone else there. My world had just been shattered.

The other thing I remember is picking up that little sock monkey that we had bought earlier that day for Apollo. Wow, that felt like a long day.

I grabbed that sock monkey and held it close, knowing it was the last thing that Apollo had given me. To this day, that sock monkey lives right above my head on my side of the bed. I snuggle with it when I get sad, and hold it close when I miss my boy extra hard.

At the time of writing this, it has been about two and a half months since we said goodbye to Apollo, and each day gets simultaneously easier and harder.

It’s easier because I’m healing. Because my head is clear and I can see and remember all of the amazing times we had with him. Because I know we made the right decision, as hard as it was.

But it’s also harder because I miss him every single moment of every single day. I want him to be there, upside down next to me when I wake up. For him to be sleeping by my feet when we visit a brewery. I want his head to lay on the center console of my car as we drive to whatever destination is next. But it’s not. And that kills me.

But I’m healing, we all are. Most of the time, I can talk about Apollo with the biggest smile on my face. I can look through the thousands of pictures I have of him, with those stupid floppy lips that I love so much.

We got a new puppy, his name is Lucas. I’m sure you’ve already seen him around. We didn’t get him to replace Apollo, on the contrary, we got him because we know Apollo would’ve wanted us to have another gentle giant slobbering their way through our lives.

Many people have asked me how I’m doing, and to be honest, I’m okay. It’s been a terribly hard year. I was laid off because of COVID. I lost my grandfather, who had been like a dad to me. A few weeks later, I said goodbye to my best friend.

But all of these things, all of these hardships, have helped me cherish and remember the important things in life. Memories, happiness, love.

I know my grandpa and Apollo are up in heaven, sitting at Rainbow Bridge Brewing Company, enjoying each other’s company.

As for me, I’m okay. I’ll never be “normal” again, not in the way I was with Apollo by my side. But I am finding a new normal, where Apollo lives in my heart and in my head as a little ghost with big feet and a bit of a drooling problem.

If you’re going through this or have been through it already, my heart is with you. Losing our best friends is one of the hardest things in the world. I’m always here if you need to talk, but I hope this post, albeit a bit long, helped you realize that you’re not alone.

Also, if you or someone you know has a pet going through cancer, I wrote an entire post about our experience in hopes that someone else would find it helpful.

And to those of you who have lost your best friend, I raise a glass to you. May they live forever in the joy and memories they brought into your life.

With love,
Melanie, GGW Momma