Beast McBeast

I met the love of my life when I was nineteen years old. She was shy, loved the outdoors, and was obsessed with food. She loved people but hated cats, dogs, and anything else that moved on four legs. She was a snob about cheese and only ate imported cheese from Europe, leaving the plastic-wrapped American cheddar on the floor. She loved to sleep. The mere mention of the word "walk" would make her ears perk, and she'd immediately communicate, "yes, I'm ready, are YOU?!". Nahla had not one but three dog collars, depending on her mood and the occasion at hand.

There are countless memories Id like to share with you about my dog. From her twenty-first birthday party to the time she saved our house from burning down, I considered my dog to be an extension of myself. To say I loved Nahla would be an understatement. I was healthily obsessed with her. As she was approaching her golden years, and my family and I had a bed for her in every room, should she become tired. She had special doggie CBD gummies in case she was anxious or we felt like she was in need of a good time. A coat in case she was cold. She was fed wet dog food because of her sensitive stomach but we had dry food as a back up incase it was needed. We had plans for how to evacuate Nahla during an emergency. Whether it was a potential hurricane, snowstorm, or zombie apocalypse, we were ready. But I was not ready for what happened next. As much as I want to tell you about the countless happy memories I had with her, I think this memory is the most significant. It’s about learning how to accept a change in plans.

Control. It's something the pandemic forced us to realize that maybe we never had at all. Covid ravished a lot of our lives. Whether you became a remote worker, lost your job, lost a loved one, became ill yourself, or suffered in any of the other countless ways, it changed us all. The last three years have been an emotionally grueling exhaustion fest for everyone on this planet. After working as an ICU nurse during the height of the pandemic in 2020, my fiancé and I broke up and I ended up moving back to my parent's home where Nahla lived. I hated my job and knew I had to move on. I transitioned from intensive care to Hospice Home Care Nursing.

Being a hospice nurse is about walking alongside individuals as they navigate, with their loved ones, through the stages of grief to death. You and the hospice team help patients live as best they can and when the time comes, help them pass peacefully at home with their loved ones. When you work in hospice, you hear repeated phrases day in and day out. "I thought there would be more time", "I'm not ready", "why cant I feed him/her?". All questions that are never easy to answer.

On a Wednesday in September 2021, I came up the stairs half exhausted, ready to start my working day. My eyes are always half-open until my first cup of coffee but when I turned and saw Nahla's bowl full of food it was like a quick espresso shot. "Wheres the dog?" I said to my dad who was sitting on the couch. "She’s over here." The dog was panting in a way I hadn't seen before. "She didn't eat?" "No."

I immediately sat down. In hospice, we tell people all the time its part of the dying process. To not eat is normal during this time. My mind began swimming, Nahla didn't eat? Nahla loves to eat. Maybe this is a one-time thing maybe she’s still full from last night. Denial.

"She hasn't eaten" my dad chimed in again as if I had forgotten. What was I going to do? I still had to work today, I had patients to see. "Yea, I know Dad."

Nahla was thirteen years old and never had any health issues. She was a medium-sized mutt. I'm not sure if it was delusion or love but we assumed we would have Nahla until she was fifteen or sixteen years old. My brain was swimming in thought. "What do we do?" I asked

"I think we should just wait and see. Maybe she'll eat later" My dad, a retired intensive care nurse said, his eyes carefully studying the dog.

Later came and I called my family in the afternoon to see if Nahla ate anything. "She hasn't eaten anything Katie." By this time my younger brother, James had come home and heard the news. The three of us on the phone began collaborating about what to do. Should we take her to the vet? Now? Later today? Tomorrow? I was sitting in a Starbucks parking lot trying to document the patients I had already seen. I had one patient left to visit and I was 45 minutes from my house. It was 4 pm. I was becoming increasingly overwhelmed with the conversation. The constant badminton verbal back and forth about the vet was becoming intolerable. I yelled, "IM STILL AT WORK, I CANT TALK ABOUT THIS RIGHT NOW." Anger.

On Thursday, James ended up taking her to the vet. The doctor said she had liver tumors and was GI Bleeding. As James was telling me this, his eyes swollen and fatigued, I sat at my work computer stupified. She was fine the other day. Tuesday was my off day and we went for a walk. How could this be happening? This could not be happening. After this atrocious year, now my dog dies? No, this can't be how this story ends. I interrupt "So there's nothing we can do?"

James let out a long-exasperated sigh, holding back tears of his own. "No."

My jaw drops open. "So shes just going to die?!"

"Yes"

The next day, Nahla was comfortable but her panting was increasing. We were given meds by the veterinarian that would help make her more comfortable at home. My mom wanted to make an appointment for the vet for Tuesday, my next off day. I couldn't handle the thought of it. Why was everything moving so fast? I wasn't ready. I called the house multiple times during my shift to see if she ate. I thought maybe if we gave her something special, something she really loved, then she'd eat. I stopped by McDonald’s and bought a ten pack of chicken nuggets. I came home and I could see Nahla's nose in the air. I came over and placed the chicken on the floor. Nothing. I took the nugget broke it into tiny pieces and tried to feed it to her.

"Come on Nahla, please eat"

In Hospice we teach family members that it’s okay if their loved one doesn't eat because their body is shutting down. We talk about how we shouldn't try and force someone to eat because its part of the process of dying. Intellectually I knew this. But as I lay on the floor trying to hand feed my dog chicken nuggets I was desperate for her to take a bite.

"Please Nahla, just have a little"

She turned her head away from me and rested it on her leg. Bargaining.

It was brutal seeing patients on Friday. All I could do was think about Nahla. I knew we were running out of time. I knew that a body that did not have caloric intake would pass. I knew this. I was in my car trying to figure out how to see patients and get home as fast as I could. One of the positives of a nurse's PPE is it’s very difficult for anyone to determine your crying when you're wearing a mask and a face shield. Depression.

When I came home that afternoon, Nahla's breathing pattern had changed. It was more labored. She looked like she had just run a marathon even though she hadn’t moved for days. We knew we wouldn't make it to Tuesday. We gave her the medication from the vet to make her more comfortable. An hour or two later, she passed at home surrounded by her family.

In all of my years with Nahla, I have had countless memories. But the last one was full of so much meaning. It taught me lessons I had spent the past year teaching others. There's never enough time. Its not fair. But the most important thing is to make your loved ones comfortable so they can pass peacefully at home surrounded by the ones they loved.

Nahla had three collars. I gave the collar she wore every day to James, the bowtie collar to my Dad and I kept her original blue-collar she wore when she came home from the pound, 13 years ago. My dog never said a word and I think that was her most powerful lesson. She was always a reflection of pure love. I keep her collar in my jewelry box and smile whenever I see it. There's never enough time but I am so grateful for the time I had with Nahla the dog, aka beast mc beast, my baby, my dog. Acceptance.