Neal Rubin: Southfield animal hospital gives pets taste of chocolate at end of lives
Miles was getting portly, which can happen when your people love you, and then Jan and Gary Rosenberg figured out he liked carrots.
They'd cut them into pieces and toss them as treats, and they helped the brown puggle with the black snout drop back to his ideal, short-legged 35 pounds.
By Monday, though, he was past the point where he could catch the pieces in midair, or see them very well, or even find them when they fell between his paws.
That was the day the Rosenbergs, who live in Huntington Woods, said farewell to the 16-year-old pug and beagle mix. The day the veterinary technician who helped him take his final nap cried, bless her heart.
The day Miles tasted something forbidden, because a veterinary clinic in Southfield that takes care of dogs and cats turns out to be good with people, too.
We know when we agree to adore a pet that we will someday have to say goodbye. We know it will hurt. We do it anyway because everything we get in return, the nuzzles and funny stories and even the godawful messes at 3 in the morning, make it so much more than worthwhile.
“They tell you dogs don’t always show pain,” Gary said. It’s a primal thing, one of the differences in the wild between predator and prey.
But Miles was having trouble getting up or even laying down, and the Rosenbergs had needed to invest in an industrial-sized carpet cleaner. Sometimes, he’d stand with two paws on the deck and two in the house, trying to recall what he’d set out to do or maybe even where he was.
His time had come. His people made an appointment, 7 p.m. at Greenfield Animal Hospital in Southfield. They fed him ice cream, then arrived early so he could stretch out in the grass and feel the sun before they went inside.
The clinic on West Eleven Mile Road is large, about to add a sixth doctor. It has a special den for euthanasia, all the way across the building from the examination rooms, with a sofa and plenty of tissues.
On the earth-toned tile floor there, the Rosenbergs saw a large screw-top jar filled with foil-wrapped Hershey candies. "Goodbye kisses," said the label, and next to it was a sign:
"Because no pet should go to heaven without tasting chocolate."
More from Neal Rubin: Municibid has deals on lamps, hockey rinks, more. Just don't bid on my fire truck.
Have you seen this bird? Fireworks scare off toilet-trained macaw.
A puggle in perspective
Miles arrived in Michigan from Mississippi, where a breeder assured Jan that he was a pocket puggle who would top out at 10 pounds.
She remembers explaining that to the clerk at a pet store where she was buying puppy supplies. The clerk held out her hands to show the approximate size of a pug, then widened them to represent a beagle, and laughed: "You think he's going to somehow be smaller than that?"
Not for long, but that didn't matter once he crawled into her lap and fell asleep. He wasn't allowed on the furniture, but sometimes when Gary was on the floor stretching, Miles would jump up on his chest.
A fierce hunter, he'd go nose-to-nose with insects on the deck. When one of the Rosenbergs' children moved overseas six years ago, they acquired his Chihuahua/pug mix, Dylan, and having a younger playmate seemed to energize Miles, until he had no more energy to give.
Truth is, Gary says, they might have been a little slow deciding to let him go. One of the tricky things about pets is that you only know for sure looking back.
One of the blessings, though, is that looking back is so much fun.
Finding pets and a purpose
Sarah Sewick’s early memories of pets involve other people’s. Her parents didn’t allow animals in the house.
She is the veterinarian who sat on the floor Monday night with Miles, the Rosenbergs and licensed veterinary technician Tracy Galbraith. She's usually on the floor anyway, she said, because the patients matter most and that's where they feel comfortable.
Sewick, 43, majored in public relations in college, found a job in her field and hated it. Then she took a low-level job at an animal clinic and found a purpose.
She and her husband, Paul, have two dogs, three cats and a box turtle, all rescues. The most senior dog is a beagle named Diva whose owner let her balloon to 50 pounds, then wanted to euthanize her because she was fat.
Sewick said no. Knowing the owner would keep looking for someone who’d say yes, she added Diva to the menagerie and helped her lose 40% of her body weight.
Diva is 15 years old, and maybe someday she'll taste a Hershey's Kiss. You never know.
What's certain is that chocolate is a stimulant, like caffeine or nicotine, and a small dose for a dog or cat can bring on all the worst symptoms of an upset stomach. A large dose can bring seizures or death.
Enough years and ailments can make it immaterial.
A few years ago, Sewick said, she and her colleagues heard about a clinic that was providing chocolate as a last, extravagant bite. The idea was good enough to borrow, so they did, and they don't hurry getting to the moment.
Gary Rosenberg had put a dog down long ago, he said, and "It was just me and a doctor. 'Hang on to him, OK, I'm going to do it.' "
Miles had comfort and company. He was laying on a thick blanket while the Rosenbergs cooed soothing things. Then Galbraith excused herself with Miles and inserted a port so he wouldn't feel any injections.
When he came back, the clinic offered cheese, which he ate, and a hot dog, which he nibbled at. Then someone unwrapped a Kiss, the holy grail of contraband.
He licked at it a few times, and that was it. He was sore and overwhelmed and didn't know what he was missing, or didn't care. He was with his people, and one injection made him sleepy and another made everything go away.
He was a good dog and he lived a good life. He had a taste of chocolate, and then ...
Sweet dreams.
Reach Neal Rubin at NARubin@freepress.com, or via Twitter at @nealrubin_fp.
To subscribe to the Free Press at discount rates, click here.
This article originally appeared on Detroit Free Press: Southfield animal hospital gives pets chocolate at end of lives
