Final Lessons From Charlie

Saying goodbye to the best dog in the world

I saw the signs. I knew it wouldn’t be long. But I kept thinking, “As long as he’s happy. . .” I was wrong.

Of course he acted happy. That’s what dogs do. It’s an instinct that they can’t resist. When they were in the wild, they had to hide their weaknesses and put on a show of strength. Otherwise they’d be attacked by predators.

Pretend to be happy. Pretend everything’s okay. Even when the pain is almost unbearable.

Poor Charlie.

Maybe I just wasn’t ready to let go of the best dog in the world. The one who trusted me more than I trust God. The one who, unlike any other dog that I'd ever known, loved people more than he loved food.

So I let him suffer for too long.

I knew he had an uncontrollable, inoperable growth. But even as it continued to expand, it didn’t seem to bother him. He didn’t seem to know that it was there.

In the last few weeks, though, Charlie had begun showing signs that something had changed: Eating a little less eagerly. Occasionally acting restless. Straying from his usual routines. Failing to come to me in the evening, when he knew he could get some extra attention. At other times, appearing more needy, seeking more strokes. Lying out in the sun more often. He’d learned from his achy joints that heat could reduce pain.

I should have recognized what was happening.

It wasn’t until late one afternoon, when I took a closer look at his growth, that I could see clear indications of how very much it was hurting him. Poor Charlie.

My heart broke. Partly because I knew the time had come when I’d have to say goodbye. But even more because I’d allowed this dog that I loved so much to suffer needlessly.

It was too late to contact the doctor that day. And I needed to process my next steps, to be certain that there was only one way to relieve his pain.

The next morning I called the vet’s office as soon as it opened and made one last appointment for Charlie. I sat by his side as he fell asleep and as the overdose of anesthetic was administered. I said my last farewell with tears in my eyes.

How do they do it? How do dogs put on such a good show of being strong and happy even when they’re in agony? Don’t they realize that it only makes their suffering worse?

Hiding our pain

And yet we humans often do the same thing. Pretend to be happy. Pretend everything’s okay. Even when the pain is almost unbearable.

Not so much with physical achiness. In that case, we rush to the medicine cabinet or to the doctor. But we do it with emotional suffering.

“Don't cry out loud. Just keep it inside, learn how to hide your feelings.” (From “Don’t Cry Out Loud.” Lyrics by Carole Bayer Sager, 1976.)

“I am a rock. I am an island. And a rock feels no pain. And an island never cries.” (From “I Am a Rock,” by Paul Simon, 1965.)

“In order to shield my pride, I’ve tried to cover this hurt with a show of gladness.” (From “The Tears of a Clown.” Lyrics by Smokey Robinson, 1967.)

Songs from my youth voicing our human tendency to hide our pain and weakness. To imagine that remaining aloof from others and maintaining our pride will feel better than taking the risk of being hurt. Why don’t we realize that it only makes our suffering worse?

We’re not dogs. We’re not compelled by instinct to pretend that we’re strong, that all is well. Yes, there are predators out there who will try to take advantage of us in our weakness. But there are also sources of comfort and strength. “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted” (Matthew 5:4, italics added). “God . . . comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others” (2 Corinthians 1:3-4 NLT, italics added).

Unlike dogs, we’ve learned as a species that we grow stronger emotionally and spiritually by facing our pain, revealing it to trusted friends, and allowing them to minister to us in our time of need. Why is it so hard to do that?

Seeing others’ pain

One reason I didn’t understand how much Charlie was hurting was because I didn’t try to look closely enough to see for myself how bad it had gotten. I was willing to take him at face value.

How often do we as Christians treat our fellow sufferers the same way? How often do we simply accept the show they put on instead of trying to peer beneath the surface? How much anguish could we address and relieve if we just took the time to look at the signs and reach out to them?

As with Charlie, the signs are usually there. A lack of appetite. Increased restlessness. Changes in routines or habits. Withdrawing from others. Acting more needy. Self-medicating.

Are we willing to see them?

Once I realized what was happening to Charlie, my next steps were obvious and straightforward. That doesn’t tend to be the case with human beings. Our emotional struggles are more complicated than a dog’s physical pain. Trying to be there for someone who’s hurting inside can get messy.

But if it’s done with prayer and compassion, desiring what’s best for the sufferer, being in tune to their needs and to the Holy Spirit’s leading rather than forcing our own agenda on them—and apologizing and learning from our mistakes when we fail—God can use us to help relieve their pain.

This isn’t optional. It’s what Jesus did when He walked this earth. It’s part of our calling as His followers. Part of His plan to heal those who are hurting.