Some bright morning when this life is over,
I'll fly away
to that home on God's celestial shore,
I'll fly away.
I'll fly away, oh Glory.
I'll fly away in the morning.
When I die, Hallelujah by and by,
I'll fly away.
When the shadows of this life have gone,
I'll fly away.
Like a bird from these prison bars I'll fly,
I'll fly away.
Oh, how glad and happy when we meet,
I'll fly away.
No more cold iron shackles on my feet,
I'll fly away.
Just a few more weary days and then,
I'll fly away.
To a land where joys will never end,
I'll fly away.
I'll fly away, oh Glory.
I'll fly away in the morning.
When I die, Hallelujah by and by,
I'll fly away.
--Hymn written by Albert E. Brumley
It has recently become clear that it is time to let Ruby go. Tomorrow afternoon I will give her a tranquilizer, let her eat her fill of ice cream, and take her to the vet to be euthanized.
I've written quite a bit about Ruby and her tragic life, and I'm sure I'll write much more. But for now I simply want to let everyone know the situation.
For her part, Ruby is simply too afraid of too many things. Her current quality of life, when she is on Xanax, is perhaps a 3 or 4 on a scale of 1 to 10, where 10 is the quality of life had by a normal dog with a responsible owner (in this sense, 10 is not even the best quality of life for a dog). Even when she is on Xanax, she is always encountering something in her environment that is at least mildly frightening. It could be a person across the street. It could be a leaf or a piece of trash blowing in the breeze. It could be the chair that has been in our home Ruby's whole life. At any given moment, something is making her at least a little nervous. She has to be doped up in order to be relaxed in our own home, and even then she is not as relaxed as a normal dog would be without drugs. but perhaps what's worse is that in all our attempts to counter-condition her responses to these stimuli, Ruby's life has been extremely restricted for over a year now. She is still afraid, and yet she is also unbearably bored. I can tell that she is desperate for more activities, more physical exercise, more stimulation. But increasing her level of activity leaves her overstimulated and frazzled. I believe restricting her activity would be worth it if it were temporary, but I now see too many of these restrictions are permanent. I do not believe that she could ever go to an off-leash dog park or to the beach again. I no longer even believe that I could ever responsibly walk her out the door without a muzzle.
The medications have helped. I would even say that Prozac was a miracle drug for Ruby. But the drugs are like life support. They make it possible for me to keep Ruby alive. But living with what is at best a low-level continuous sense of fear is not a good life for a dog. For a dog of Ruby's size, with her level of energy, with her athleticism, with her intelligence, a life consisting of muzzled walks in a boring neighborhood on a short leash is not a life, it's a goddamn tragedy.
For my part, I can no longer spend every day trying to minimize Ruby's fear, trying to alleviate suffering that cannot be alleviated. Ruby's problems have been my focus for two years now (and she's not even three years old!). We have worked with a veterinary behaviorist in LA (a specialist among specialists) for over six months now, and we have followed every piece of advice to the letter, day in and day out. I have devoted all of my spare time to working with Ruby on desensitization and counter-conditioning. I have dedicated myself to her completely. I have treated her problems as my problems: what she can't do, I can't do. I have done this because I love her with all my heart and I cannot turn my back on her as long as there is reasonable hope. Now, I can find straws to grasp at if I search for hope, but when I look at the situation for what it is, I see that it is absurd. Ruby and I have been walking a tight-rope for so long now, and we simply cannot continue.
So for us both, this is a necessary act of mercy. But somehow that doesn't make it any easier.
