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One day, when I was around thirteen, I came home from school unexpectedly early. Upon arriving, I was puzzled to find our family veterinarian was there. The vet, Dr. Burns, seemed equally surprised to see me, as was my mother. I stood by and watched them while they both scrambled in discomfort trying to find the words to explain that the purpose of the vet’s visit was to euthanize our family’s dog. Prince had been my companion for most of my young life and the news, while not entirely surprising, caught me entirely off-guard.

I had known for a while that Prince, or “Princie,” as I often called him, was not well. Somewhere over a dozen or so years old, a goodly time for a cocker spaniel mix, there had been prior discussion around the dinner table that Princie was nearing the end of his life. But my parents had given no clear indication beforehand that they had set up a course of action to address the situation.

As we gathered around Princie in the back yard, Dr. Burns told me that quality of life for our pet was no longer an option. Putting him gently to sleep was the only humane choice, he explained. Perhaps I might consider going inside while he went about his task, he suggested, the underlying, unspoken message being to save me the pain of having to watch my childhood companion while he was being humanely “sent to a better place.”

I didn’t want to leave my old friend, I told him. I wanted to be there, to cradle and comfort Princie while he inserted the needle into Prince’s forearm and emptied the syringe of its life-ending contents.

So that’s what I did. I sat down beside Prince and held his decrepit body in my lap, comforting him and easing him through his fear of this stranger’s presence and his suspicious behavior. Prince had never liked going to the veterinarian’s office; it had always included, in one way or another, an element of pain for him; it was ever a source of alarm. Even though this encounter with the vet was occurring on his turf for a change, those old associations were not lost to him.

I held Prince and stroked his head until he fell asleep and his life slowly ebbed from his body.

Had I not accidentally stumbled upon this scheme my parents had hatched to “save me” from experiencing first-hand loss in all its rawness, forgiving them for so mis-reading, as benevolent as their intentions were, the import of the event and its potential impact on me, would have been very difficult.

Had I come home at the usual time, the vet would have already been there and gone, taking Prince’s lifeless body with him and leaving me to grapple with having been deprived of the opportunity to provide comfort in Prince’s hour of need, say my proper good-byes and obtain whatever modicum of closure can be attained under such circumstances.

There’s a subtle and not intended cruelty inherent in actions designed to save people from having to experience pain. Such acts, usually motivated by concern or love, nonetheless interrupt the natural flow of consequence. By prohibiting the occurrence of “closure,” they deny those being “protected” the opportunity to experience the range of emotions accompanying such events, thus interfering with their ability to fully process their feelings and achieve the emotional state of acceptance necessary to move forward following the event’s completion.

As difficult as it was to be present when Princie was dispatched to the spirit world, my sense of loss would have been far greater had I been denied that experience.   In such moments, there is no better substitute for simply being honest, no matter how painful it may be to do so.

The truth is always the better course of action.

Tim Konrad

January 25, 2021