Day Four – You will know

I have often heard people say and I have said it myself that you will know when it’s time to say goodbye.  In the past, I have known both with my first dog, Abbie and with our dogs, Chester and Dezi. But this time, we weren’t the ones who knew when it was time to let Rubin go; it was our dog, Oscar. 

Oscar came to us 5 1/2 years ago when our sister-in-law rescued him from the streets of Costa Rica while she was on vacation. At first we were just going to foster him, but that didn’t last long. We fell for him instantly. He was sweet and good-natured and most of all, he understood Rubin.

Despite all the years of dog walking and pet sitting, Rubin could be a grumpy guy when it came to other dogs. He had his favorites, but sometimes he’d grow impatient and have to set strict ground rules about how close they could be to him, how long they could sniff him, and where the boundaries were for feeding stations and safe zones on the couch. 

But there was none of that with Oscar. It was as if Oscar knew the rules immediately and he gave a wide berth to Rubin from day one. They rarely had a scuffle and over time, Rubin came to respect Oscar as much as Oscar respected him. They had a quiet communication with each other and through the years, you could see a strong bond grow between them. 

So in the middle of Rubin’s decline, when we were trying everything we could think of to help him, uncertain as to whether or not it was time, we decided to ask Oscar. We were sitting on the floor of the dining room after we inserted the needle into Rubin for that evening’s round of subcutaneous fluids. We talked quietly, all the while petting Rubin and reassuring him what a good boy he was. And then I said, out loud, “Oscar? Is it time, Oscar? Is it time to let Rubin go?”

Oscar was lying on the couch – his favorite spot — and he immediately got up and came over to me. He never gets off the couch unless it’s meal time or you have a leash in your hand.  This time though, he jumped down and trotted over to me, put his nose under my elbow, gave a hard, upward push, and then sat down and looked at me with the most serious of eyes.

I know some people don’t believe animals can communicate, but we knew instantly what he was saying. “Yes, yes, yes, it’s time.” It was one of the most forthright and honest communications I have ever witnessed from an animal. 

Ann and I looked at each other in disbelief; we both knew how amazing that moment was. Oscar understood Rubin, always had, and now he was communicating what we were unable to decipher from Rubin. We cried. We thanked Oscar. And then we called the vet to set up the euthanasia the next day. 

We knew Rubin’s time was definitely coming. We weren’t fooling ourselves that his decline was temporary. We understood that “someday” he would leave us, but perhaps what we didn’t fully grasp was how imminent that someday would be. 

Oscar knew. And Oscar had the guts, once we asked, to tell us as clearly as possible. Every day since then, we’ve told Oscar what a good boy he is for letting us know, how much we appreciate his honesty and sensitivity. 

In the following days, we’ve talked at length about how Oscar knew this was coming weeks, perhaps months before we did. There were subtle hints. Rubin had been growing pickier and pickier about his food. He’d stand over his bowl and just stare at it, showing very little interest in the meals we prepared. Oscar hesitated eating as well, waiting it seemed, for Rubin to start. But often Rubin wouldn’t start and Oscar would walk away from his own bowl, refusing to eat as if in solidarity. Since Rubin’s passing, Oscar has eaten with gusto, never hesitating when the food is offered.

Oscar also started lying in Rubin’s bed in the dining room. Rubin liked to sit in that bed because he could keep track of us in all corners of the house, especially if we were in the kitchen. Quietly, at various times of the day when the bed wasn’t occupied, Oscar would almost tip-toe over to it and lie down. Occasionally, Rubin would stand over Oscar in the bed and bark not actually at Oscar, but more about Oscar, alerting us that something was very very wrong with this situation. Now that Rubin is gone, Oscar hasn’t shown the slightest bit of interest in that bed. 

And there was a sullen emotion that came over Oscar in the weeks before Rubin passed. We called it moping, but I think it was something much deeper and heartfelt. A lot of our attention and energy was focused on Rubin these past few months. Preparing his medications and supplements, making food for him, massaging him, taking him out in the middle of the night, or getting up with him when he was agitated was time consuming. Oscar was patient through it all, but looking back, we definitely misread his mopey-ness. He was worried about his big brother and he was sad because he knew what was coming even though we were unsure. 

We know Oscar is grieving as well. He was present when we said goodbye to Rubin and the rest of the day, Oscar curled as close as he could to us. He didn’t have energy for walking and at one point we thought he had fallen sick, his eyes dull and without their normal spark. We’ve consoled him these past few days, reassured him that telling us it was Rubin’s time was the best thing he could have done, and that we are sad to not have Rubin with us anymore. ‘

We’ve taken Oscar on long walks, visited friends and neighbors, and given him time to be with his other dog friends. It all seems to be helping, thankfully, reaffirming our belief that Oscar is an amazingly sensitive and equally resilient little fella. 

Of that we are certain.