Sonny's Story

Life is wild - messy, beautiful, intimate, and sometimes maddening. Companion animals demonstrate this with particular clarity. They move through joy, discomfort, curiosity, and even decline without abstraction. With their shorter lifespans, they do it quickly enough that we humans are forced to pay attention.

Sonny was a dog who understood the messiness of life better than most.

He immigrated from Sweden when he was just two or three years old and even had a tiny dog passport. It described him as a papillon with “vit och röd” coloring and the very un-Swedish name of “Sweet and Hot Chili.” He had been donated to Michigan State University because he carried genes for an eye disorder that the veterinary ophthalmology department was studying. The research was noninvasive, and Sonny loved the attention—especially when people gazed lovingly into his “special eyes.”

Papillons are known for being highly intelligent, but Sonny… well, Sonny was very pretty. But, he knew his strengths! Rather than solve puzzle toys himself, he charmed his humans into solving them for him. Maybe he wasn’t smart in the classical sense, but he knew how to leverage his charisma, which was brilliant in its own way.

By the time I met him, Sonny was seven years old. His principal investigator decided he deserved to retire and live in peace. I was a second-year veterinary student working as a kennel attendant, and I jumped at the chance to adopt him.

He adjusted well to civilian life despite my tiny apartment, his unruly mastiff roommate, and my unpredictable schedule. After graduation, he loved coming to work with me, prancing through the clinic with more confidence than I had as a new veterinarian. He rifled through my bag for treats and developed a passion for chewing my most expensive pens. I still have a few with his toothmarks and treasure them.

But life is finite, and even the most dedicated veterinarian can’t prevent the inevitable.

Sonny got sick. He was a sweet and well-behaved little dog, but over time, his endless patience wore thin. He no longer wagged his tail when it was time for treatments. He ran away from feedings. Instead of cuddling up against me after dinner, he would sit a few feet away, hunched and uncomfortable. The weather was growing cold, and despite his swedish origins, Sonny did not like winter at all.

It was time to make a decision.

Ending Sonny’s life was not the difficult choice. He was suffering, and I had taken an oath to relieve animal suffering. The difficult decision was where, and with whom.

I could have brought him to the clinic. He liked the staff, but he was tired of being medically handled. He wanted cuddling and adoration, not disinfectant and needles. At work, Sonny knew me as Dr. Chase - a competent, mostly tolerable veterinarian. At home, he knew me as Jillian - his playmate, snack provider, and favorite pillow.

At the end, Sonny didn’t want Dr. Chase. He wanted Jillian. So, I took him home.

The euthanasia solution went in easily. Sonny had exhausted himself greeting his old frenemy, and was already asleep. After his breathing stilled, I listened for the sound of his beating heart and realized that I’d been holding my own breath. His little heart, one I’d practiced listening to so many times as a vet student and later as his vet, had finally stopped. I confirmed to my family that Sonny had passed, and then, finally, I let myself cry.

A not-yet-recovered workaholic, I had only taken a half day off work. After my other dogs inspected his body and I hugged my family, I wrapped him in a blanket and went back to the clinic.

Some colleagues questioned my choice to euthanize my own dog. They openly wondered if I would regret being the one to stop his heart. Of course, I missed him. I still do, years later. But I never regretted my decision. Letting him go in his own home, with his own people, was the greatest gift I could give him, both as a pet owner and a veterinarian.

Death isn’t a failure. It is part of life. It is just as wild, just as intimate, and yes - beautiful, too, in its own way. We can postpone it sometimes and soften it occasionally, but we cannot separate it from living. The only failure is neglecting to live the one life we have to the fullest.

And Sonny? He was no failure. Sonny was brilliant.