For six happy years, the foundling Olaf had been an exemplary companion: as pure of heart, as noble, as joyful, as loving as any dog who had ever lived. He had walked out of the rain to become his beloved girl’s best friend, and he had kept faithfully at her side through every mood and circumstance, taking to the sea and surfboard as enthusiastically as she did.
When he first showed symptoms, the cancer had already spread from his spleen to his liver and heart. Dr. John Kerman called it “hemangiosarcoma.” Although Bibi was a lover of language, that was a word she would hate for the rest of her life, as if it were not merely a word, but also one of the names of Evil. Neither chemo nor radiation would extend the dog’s life. The veterinarian estimated that Olaf had a week—at most two weeks—to live.
Bibi gave her cherished friend all the affection that could be squeezed into so little time, fed him all of his favorite treats and some that he’d never tasted before. She took him on easy walks, not where she determined, but where he seemed to want to go. They sat on the bench at Inspiration Point for hours, watching the sea in all its serenity and all its tossing glory, while she shared with the golden retriever every confidence, as always she had.
Her mother and father were not surprised by Bibi’s devotion, but they did not expect that her commitment to Olaf’s comfort in his last days would extend to participation in the act of euthanasia. The moment might arrive when the cancer, thus far largely painless, would begin to work its agony in the flesh. With human beings, a natural death was a death with dignity. But animals were innocents, and as their stewards, people owed them mercy. Bibi decided not only that Olaf must not suffer, but also that he must not be in the least afraid when the moment came to put him down. The dog liked his vet, but he didn’t like needles and became anxious at the sight of them. Only his trusted mistress, so precious to him, might inject him without causing him so much as a moment of fear.
Dr. John Kerman was a good man, extending every kindness and courtesy to people and animals alike, but he did not at first think it wise to grant young Bibi’s request to administer the mortal drugs herself. Although mature for her age, she was nevertheless only sixteen. Soon, however, she convinced him that she was up to the task both emotionally and intellectually. During that week, each time he had a dog to be anesthetized for teeth cleaning or other procedures, Dr. Kerman welcomed the girl into his surgery to observe how a catheter was placed in a leg vein. She also attended two emergency euthanasia sessions, observing solemnly—and wept only later, at home. Using green grapes and hypodermic syringes, she practiced the carefully angled insertion of a needle.
On the morning of the tenth day after they had been given Olaf’s prognosis, the dog came to a crisis, suffering a sudden weakness in his legs. His breathing became labored, and he began whimpering in distress. John Kerman arrived at the bungalow with his medical kit, confirmed that the moment had come, and on the nightstand in Bibi’s bedroom, he placed the instruments that she would need.
Murph carried Olaf to the bed, and for a few minutes, they left the girl alone with the retriever, that she might look into his eyes and whisper endearments to him and promise him that they would meet again one day in a world without death.
When Bibi was ready, the vet returned to stand to one side and watch, prepared to intervene if the girl lost her courage or if she appeared to be about to make a mistake of procedure. Nancy and Murph got onto the bed with Olaf, to hold and stroke and reassure him.
The dog exhibited none of his usual fear at the sight of the needles, but watched his mistress’s hands with interest. They were delicate but strong and steady hands. Once the catheter had been placed in the femoral artery of the left rear leg and taped in place, Bibi inserted the needle in an ampule of sedative and expertly drew the required dose. Through the catheter port, she slowly administered the injection. Dr. Kerman’s preferred two-step technique was not to put the dog down in a sudden hard fall, but first to bring on sleep in a gentle fashion. As the barbiturate flowed from the barrel of the syringe into the vein, Bibi looked into Olaf’s eyes and watched as they clouded with weariness and fluttered shut to enjoy his last rest. When the dog was deeply asleep and certain not to feel even the barest moment of panic when his cardiac muscles stuttered, Bibi used the second needle to inject the drug that stopped his noble heart.