The Last Day is always a hard day for the two-legged people involved. It’s hard for so many reasons, not least of which is deciding if it is the Last Day, or if there might be more Good Days to come. Sometimes we know, and sometimes we have to make our best guess, but it is always hard.

Today was a Last Day for one of my patients, and though it was hard, there was no question that it was the Last Day. Today was the Last Day for a beautiful boy named Beau. A loved boy. And, oh, was he loved. He has had three months extra of joy and love and freedom from the pain that had constrained him for years. It was an incredible gift that his family gave him, and he repaid that gift with love streaming from every cell of his body.

He had the cheekiest smile, and so many opinions—and in the last three months I came to love him dearly. I’m not sure he felt exactly the same way about me. He would tell me off quite frequently, and he definitely let me know when I was pushing what he considered the boundaries of our friendship. But I thin
k he loved me a little, because he saw the joy my visits, and his resulting improvement, brought his family. I think sometimes he told me off just because he felt it was expected. He was always a perfect gentlemen about it, even if his language got a little colourful at times. And in the last few months almost every week would bring us a new “First”. The first unassisted swim, the first time he managed the stairs without stumbling, the first bone buried, the first run on the beach. But something—a fall this last week, perhaps—shifted that fragile balance away from wellness, and his body, though he fought, was losing the battle. He tried so hard for his family, but today, when I saw him, I knew. It was Beau’s Last Day.

It breaks my heart when I have to tell a patient’s family that our mutual journey needs to end. They often know, like Beau’s family did today, but hearing me say the words is devastating for them. Until this point, we’ve had so many successes together, and I know they are hoping for just one more. But they watch my face as I begin to speak, and I can see their hope dissolving, leaving only the desperate wish that I perform one more miracle, give them one more Good Day… and if it was in my power, I would. But it isn’t in my power, and so my tears flow as I tell them that it is time for us to give that final gift—a passing free from pain and fear, surrounded by love.

Today, for his Last Day, Beau lay in his favourite spot on the deck, and his person lay beside him. He was held and loved, and he slipped from this world across the Rainbow Bridge in peace and without pain. For him, it wasn’t hard. He went to meet those family members whose paws had worn that path before, and I know they will all be patiently waiting, in the years to come, to greet their people when they in turn face their Last Day. But it was hard for his people, and I admire them greatly for their courage in never hesitating to do what Beau needed, even on this Last Day. I sat there, after his heart had stilled, and witnessed a profound outpouring of love from Beau’s family for each other, despite their grief and the realisation—never real until it is—that their boy would be absent from their daily lives.

We talked a little then, about Beau, and I was honoured when his family shared with me some stories of his early escapades. There were some smiles and some loving laughter, and I knew then that Beau’s family would be okay. Because while their grief will still cut with breathtaking savagery, there are sixteen years of loving memories with which to salve the wounds it leaves. That, and the spirit of a cheeky boy who will continue to watch over his family in the years to come, just like he did when he lived among them as a Border Collie named Beau.