Tearful Farewell (for now) to Betty
HHF Betty. American Border Collie Association #373300
Born Nov. 20, 2011--Died May 7, 2025.
It certainly doesn’t get any easier.
We have sat next to many dogs watching technicians inject sedatives, veterinarians inject euthanasia cocktails, and beloved dogs breath ever slowly and then die.
But it doesn’t get any easier.
This morning I was dreading what I might find when I opened the door to the kennels. For at least a half year we have had to do major clean ups after just about every four-a-day dog exercise runs. But a grooming accident two days ago (to clean her up for her animal hospital visit for a rabies vaccine) left Betty with a bad bleed from the end of her tail, and I had no idea if I had stopped it, in spite of the creams, bandages, iodine, blood stop powder, in various combinations.
But Betty wasn’t bleeding. However, when she rose to bark in the excited anticipation of the run, her legs went out from under her. I thought it was because of the mess of feces and urine spread all over her floor. But following the other three dogs out she continued to stumble. She turned back around, and in a circle, and wobbled and stumbled through the garage.
With a sinking feeling I looked into her eyes. God, no! Her eyes were darting back and forth. It was the dreaded vestibular syndrome—an inner ear and nerve problem that attacks older dogs and leaves them feeling like they are on a roller coaster.
I picked Betty up and carried her to the relative stable ground of the back yard, ran to the back door, and called for Connie. “Connie, I need your help. We will have to take Betty to the vets and have her put down!”
After putting Betty back in a clean kennel compartment, and taking the other dogs out for a short run, Connie and I made the arrangements for a 10 am appointment.
On the way to the animal hospital the tears flowed—especially for me, the one who wears emotions on my sleeve, often literally.
On the road Chauncey phoned and asked how my day was going. “Not well. We are on the way to put Betty down.” All Chauncey wanted to say was that he would be mowing our alfalfa today; but he shed his own tears with me, remembering his “Cinders” and the other dogs he has had to watch die.
We talked with Heather, the veterinarian, and were assured that the rabies vaccine hadn’t triggered the vestibular syndrome, so there was nothing easy to do to reverse it. We were also assured that Betty’s weight loss and arthritis were all going to conspire to rob her of any quality of life.
So, we decided together. Connie and I petted and petted. Betty sighed. The injections were given, we watched and whispered our farewells.
As Connie suggests, we lavish our full attention now on Hector, Betty’s littermate; Zac, her younger brother; and Max, the mad tennis ball fiend.
Once in a while, when I know I can stand the accelerated flow of tears of remembrance and loss, I think of Betty in that heaven we all have been promised.
There she will show off again her prowess that she had as a precocious pup—the first in her litter of five to climb the stairs and jump onto the couch.
There she will be unable to sit still when her job is done, but creep out every time our head is turned, to move sheep around God’s pasture.
There she will politely, but powerfully push the rude sheep away from the wintertime feeders so God’s good shepherds can get the hay in.
There she will show me what she learned from me so quickly: gather, drive, look back for other sheep, keep running till you find even the ones hidden from sight, and shed and handle the singles.
Yes, I can imagine it. Yes that is the heaven I long for.
“But, oh, my God, it hurts now. Betty was the easiest one I ever trained. She made me look good. I will never have another one like her.”
Thank you, Betty. Thank you, God.
It is a fond, but tearful farewell…for now. And even after all these times, saying goodbye sure doesn’t get any easier.