Saying Goodbye to our best friends:  Letting Go of a Senior Pet with Love”

There are moments in life that feel impossibly hard. Moments that reshape you. One of those moments came for me recently, when I had to make the painful decision to put my senior dog to sleep. Sometimes, our pets become more to us than just pets. They are our companions, shadows, calming force, and the first thing we see when we arrive home. Having an animal’s love can make you feel whole. If you have experienced this type of love, I hope you haven’t also had to experience the loss. Many have, and many will. It’s those days we try not to think about. But when things start changing with your pet, we must observe and help them. They rely on us to keep them healthy, out of pain, and safe. There are approximately 65.1 million households in the United States with dogs, each cherishing the unique bond they share with their furry companions.

My Rawkie was 18½ years old—a Rat Terrier I adopted when my ex-husband played with the Tulsa Oilers hockey team. Rawk and his littermates were rescued, dirty, hungry, and too young to be away from their mother. But the moment I saw him, I knew we were meant to be. Little did I know we would share nearly two decades of life, love, and loyalty.

Letting him go was the hardest decision I’ve ever made. And yet, it was also one of the kindest.

When to Know It is Time

Rawk had been declining slowly, but I held onto hope. He had survived so much. Only when we heard the news of losing his sister just months earlier did I realize things were getting real. When Rawk turned 18, I was overjoyed—but also anxious. My aunt had just lost her 18-year-old dog, and I feared our time was coming too.

Then came that Monday.

I had set up a camera in the bedroom to keep an eye on him while I was away. He had started falling often, couldn’t manage stairs anymore, and would stand frozen, waiting for me to carry him. When I arrived at an appointment that evening, I checked the cameras I had carefully placed with a view of him sleeping. I had started utilizing my Simplisafe security cameras over the few weeks leading up to this day to keep an eye on him while I was away. Too many red flags recently had caused me concern that I thought the cameras might offer peace of mind when I was away and he was alone. But this time was different. Rawkie had fallen. He was struggling. My heart sank.

After my appointment, I checked the cameras again, and he wasn’t in view anymore. I rushed home, 30 minutes away, and what I walked into broke me. He was in the corner of the room, flopping helplessly like a fish out of water. There was blood on the floor where he had scraped himself over and over, trying to get up. His legs were raw, and the next morning, his face was swollen from hitting it repeatedly.

I scooped him up, held him close, and whispered calming words. His heart was pounding. He had been terrified. That night confirmed what I had been dreading: it was time.

You may be in that situation, your pet is aging. Slowly losing the ability to do little things they once could do with ease. Getting on the couch, going down the stairs, and maneuvering on hardwood floors. It’s subtle. But you begin to notice little changes. Day after day, you watch with the hope that it was just a one-time incident. Just the weather. They begin to sleep more and more, and when you take breaks from your daily activities or work to interact, they look at you with tired eyes as they remain in their beds. They have aged. Just like us. But at a faster speed. The doctors’ appointments start to become more frequent. Medications slowly add up to help with any physical ailments you may be noticing. Here is where you must lean on your doctors and try to remove yourself from the emotional aspect of how you look at the behavior of your pet. 

Seeking Peace, Not Just for Him—But for Me Too

I called his trusted vet, Dr. Murray from Good Shepherd in Jenks, who had cared for Rawkie for years. I told him what happened, and he gently told me what I already knew in my heart—if it were his dog, he would make the call.

Then I reached out to his acupuncture doctor, Dr. Heather Owen, and her wonderful team at Animal Acupuncture. They had helped Rawkie tremendously over the past few years, but recently, we weren’t seeing the same improvements. They agreed—it was time.

I talked to friends who had spent time with Rawkie in those final days. No one said, “Wait.” Everyone saw the same truth I was trying to avoid. That week, I made the call. I scheduled the appointment with Sunshine Mobile Veterinary Services, a company recommended by a friend with excellent reviews and a kind, compassionate approach that allows you to keep your best friend comfortable in the privacy of their own home for their passing. We would plan to be under the willow tree, in our yard, where we spent many days cuddled up on a blanket reading a book or just enjoying the birds chirping overhead. 

Some don’t agree with setting a date for your pet to go to heaven. For me, it gave me time to spend with my boy. The docs said better one month early than a week late. What if Rawk had fallen down the stairs or had severely hurt himself, and we had to rush to euthanize him due to extreme pain? I didn’t want that for my friend, no one should. After all of the love and support they provide, this is our opportunity to show them love back. To free them from pain in a calm, loving manner. 

Over the years, Rawk had started getting anxiety when going to the doctor or just car rides in general. What once was his favorite and honestly took the place of long walks due to his sheer love of sticking his head out the window and accompanying me to my work office, and appointments, had grown into shaking, barking, and squeals of stress. Over the last year, he had even started having accidents in the car, in his bed. He had never in his 17 years leading up to this had a bathroom issue in the car. So, having the doctors come to us made all the difference in the world. In our safe space, together

A Final Week of Joy

With the date scheduled, we made his last week count. We visited all his favorite parks—Wiggly Field Dog Park in Sapulpa, Hunter’s Park, and the Gathering Place on Dog Day. He sniffed new smells, met new furry friends, and even had steak for dinner every night. (Yes, and he got to eat right off my plate—finally!) We visited Southern Agriculture, the Dog Dish, and just played in our yard like we used to. We took naps together outside. He soaked in the sunshine and love. This was the one time I put myself and my best friend ahead of work appointments and myself. We did what I felt HE wanted to do. He deserved it and more. 

Leading up to the appointment, I had doubts, like I’m sure many of you will or have as well. Maybe he will be okay, maybe it’s not time, maybe he has a few more months or years in him. That extra week I had, I spent so focused on Rawk, I was able to watch closely and diagnose if he really was in pain when he got up from a seated position, was he sleeping poorly due to pain, and whether he enjoyed doing any of the little things he used to anymore. What I found was that extra time provided me comfort. It showed me he was tired. He was hurting, he didn’t care to play with toys or run around anymore. He had stopped even getting up to greet me and my friends. The one joy he found was playing in the yard with me. While I gardened and we were together outside was when he was his happiest. It tugged on my heartstrings, knowing soon I would be doing all of those things without my best friend. 

So I gave him everything I could in those last days, because he had given me so much for nearly two decades.

The Reality of Caregiving a Senior Dog

Caring for an elderly dog isn’t just emotionally exhausting—it’s physically taxing too. Rawkie wore diapers with additional, added padding almost every day now, which often leaked. He peed every 30 minutes, and I was constantly cleaning floors, doing laundry, and prepping meds. Between his gabapentin, Rimadyl, CBD oil, acupuncture, red light therapy, and physical rehab, it became overwhelming. And I was doing it alone, while working full-time and maintaining our home and acreage.

What stuck with me was something his doctors said: “It’s not just about Rawkie’s quality of life. It’s about yours, too.”

That perspective hit me hard. Because even in the midst of the chaos, I had never really thought about myself.

Grace for Our Pets, But Not Our People?

One thing I find so profound is this: when our pets are in pain, we are told that the kindest thing we can do is let them go peacefully. To give them the gift of no more suffering. And I agree.

But why don’t we offer this same grace to the people we love?

When my mother was battling cancer, she was miserable. Her body was failing her. She had lost her hair, eyebrows, eyelashes—her joy. She didn’t want to live anymore. But we live in a state where assisted dying is not legal. She worried that if she chose to end her life, her life insurance wouldn’t pay out. She was concerned it would shame our family.

So, she suffered. Rawkie couldn’t tell me he wanted to go, but I knew. My mother could tell me, and we couldn’t do a thing. I still struggle with the unfairness of it all.

Saying Goodbye at Home: What the Euthanasia Process Really Looks Like

When the time came to say goodbye to my beloved dog, Rawkie, I chose to do it at home. I knew it would be a hard day, but I also knew I wanted it to be peaceful and familiar, for both of us. I called Sunshine Mobile Vet in Tulsa and scheduled the appointment about a week out, as they were quite booked. Oddly enough, that waiting period became a blessing—it gave me time to process, to soak in every final moment with my best friend.

The cost for the home euthanasia service was $350, plus additional fees depending on your cremation or burial preferences. They helped coordinate the next steps through Angel’s Pet Crematory, giving me options for a biodegradable urn, a clay paw print, and other memorial keepsakes.

Sunshine Mobile scheduled our goodbye for 2 PM on a Monday. That morning, Rawkie and I went for one final visit to the dog park. It was difficult to stop crying, especially when strangers noticed how frail Rawkie looked. They would ask his age and express how impressive it was that he had reached that age. One kind woman, there with her babies, asked about him. When I told her today was the day he was going to doggy heaven, she started crying. She had just recently lost her dog. She walked from the big dog side over to me, hugged me, and promised to pray. It was one of the kindest moments I’ve experienced from a stranger.

After the park, I took Rawkie for a walk to the back of our property—one last visit to our pond. We sat on the dock together, looking out over the peaceful water and watching the neighbor’s horses graze. My dad came back to check on us and asked what we were doing. I jokingly told him we were having a final chat before the doctors arrived. I asked him to watch Rawkie for a moment while I turned around to grab my shoes and warned him to be careful, as Rawkie was wobbly.

Not five seconds later, I heard a splash. I turned to see Rawkie in the pond, struggling to swim. My poor dad looked horrified—he had just turned to set down his coffee. I jumped in, soaked myself completely, and pulled Rawkie out of the water. At the time, I was in a full-blown panic mode. Looking back, it almost makes me laugh—it was such a perfectly imperfect moment that somehow fit the chaos of grief.

Soaking wet and with 20 minutes to spare, I raced Rawkie back up to the house. I wrapped him in blankets and dried him with a blow dryer, trying desperately to warm him up. As the vet team pulled into the driveway, I was still scrambling, but they were incredibly kind and patient.

We chose a serene spot underneath our large Willow tree in the backyard for the procedure. I laid out a blanket, and Rawkie was wrapped in several layers to keep warm. The veterinarian kneeled beside me and gently explained the two-step process. The first injection would help him relax. It usually takes 10–15 minutes, and then they would return with the final dose when I was ready.

They administered the first shot into his leg, and unfortunately, it caused Rawkie to yelp in pain. He tried to hop up. I immediately scooped him into my arms and held him tight, whispering to him, telling him how much he was loved. As we sat under the Willow, the breeze blew gently, and birds chirped above us. It was about 65 degrees—the perfect spring day. Slowly, I could feel his little body begin to relax. His breathing softened. His eyes drooped. I adjusted his head on my knee so he could rest comfortably.

The vets came back about 15 minutes later and asked if I was ready. I was. They shaved a small spot on his leg, administered the second shot, and I held him tighter than I ever had before. Within a minute, I felt his tiny heartbeat fade beneath my hand. A few soft breaths later, he was gone.

I stayed with him for a bit longer. My barn cat even came by to say goodbye—or rather, jumped over Rawkie with barely a glance (barn cats keep it real, I guess). The vet team gave me all the time I needed, and when I was ready, they gently took Rawkie’s body to be cremated at Angel’s Pet Crematory in Tulsa. I chose a biodegradable box and a clay paw print to remember him by. 

This was, without a doubt, one of the hardest days of my life. But I truly believe saying goodbye at home was the most compassionate and loving gift I could give him. I didn’t want Rawkie to be scared or alone in a sterile vet’s office. I wanted him to see my face, hear my voice, and feel safe in his final moments. I had earlier read that when pets are scared, they look for us. Their person. For familiarity and peace. As painful as it was, I wouldn’t have done it any other way.

Adjusting to Life Without Him

It’s been two months since Rawk left this world, and I am slowly trying to adjust. I still can’t look at his pictures or videos without crying. His beds sat in the corners like ghosts for weeks, empty. His food bowls were just recently removed. It took some time to slowly start tucking things away because it hurt so much.

I’ve been keeping busy—diving into work, planning some travel, and trying to surround myself with friends who keep me smiling. But nothing quite fills the hole he left. The house is quiet. The walks alone are different. 

Rawkie wasn’t just a dog. He was my child. I am unable to have children of my own, so he was the closest thing I believe I will have. Human or not, animals fill the void for many without children or people looking for companionship in a different way.

The Willow Tree and What Comes Next

This week, I’ll lay Rawkie to rest under the willow tree in our yard. He’ll have a plaque, a special place where I can sit and remember our life together—the tail wags, the kisses, the walks, the quiet nights on the couch. We loved this new home together. It’s only fitting that part of him stays here. 

The weeks leading up to his last day, I decided to order a Cuddle Clone. I thought it may help fill the void of his precious cuddles or that sweet face when I walk in. I received mine this week and the joy it brought me, plus also many tears, was worth it. 

To everyone who sent flowers, food, treats, or simply reached out: thank you. Your kindness helped me through this. And I can assure you he loved all of the food, treats and toys brought to him his last days. 

Rawk taught me what unconditional love looks like. He made me laugh, made me stronger, and made me a better human. He was a gift from God, and I’ll miss him forever.

For Anyone Facing This Decision…

If you or someone you know is struggling with whether it’s time to say goodbye to their senior pet, please know that you’re not alone. Talk to your veterinarians. Talk to your friends. Pay attention to what your pet is trying to tell you—not just in words, but in silence, in pain, in stillness.

And remember: sometimes, the kindest act of love is letting go.

With Love,

Tiffany

RIP Rawk Diddy Dumba Johnson  11/12/06 – 4/7/2025