Lauren Justice
Dr. Catie Hawkins arrived at my mother’s house on a sunny afternoon in April, summoned by my sister, Lily, after I discovered her dog, Coco, stuck in the basement, unable to use her hind legs.
But Hawkins, 36, wasn’t there to diagnose or to cure. She arrived as she has at hundreds of homes in and around Dane County: toting a bag of dog treats and a vial of phenobarbital, a potent barbiturate that, in little over an hour, would end Coco’s life.
Euthanasia — an Ancient Greek word for “easy death” — is part of the job for most veterinarians. But for Hawkins, it is the job.
“To end an animal’s suffering, and to provide the owner with the peace of knowing that their beloved pet is comfortably at rest, is rewarding work,” explains the Sun Prairie resident.
“The greatest sadness that I feel during a euthanasia is the suffering of the people around me.”
Ironically, in this suffering, Hawkins found her calling while earning her doctorate in veterinary medicine at the UW-Madison. She observed a former couple, with unsettled grievances, pull together after the family dog was hit by a car. The woman, who had little money, wrote her ex a large check to care for the dog and, eventually, pay for its euthanasia.
“That family’s experience was particularly moving and helped to influence my career choice,” Hawkins says.
Today, Hawkins works for Journeys Home Pet Euthanasia, a home service recommended to Lily by Coco’s vet as a solution to the dog’s predicament.
Lily was 12 when she adopted Coco, a Newfoundland-blue heeler mix, eight years ago. Although she and our mother loved the dog as family, few others shared their affection for the mutt, a chronic barker prone to disturbing your sleep and snatching food off your plate, scampering off to her corner to enjoy her take.
I looked after Coco in April while my mother recovered at a friend’s house from breast cancer surgery when, according to Hawkins’ cursory diagnosis, a herniated disc likely damaged Coco’s spine.
Lily didn’t agonize over the decision.
“We’re going to put her down,” she said.
Euthanasia is a fairly straightforward biochemical tweak — the barbiturate, once injected, shuts down the diaphragm (necessary for breathing), and then the heart.
A pain-relieving sedative cocktail given beforehand prevents any suffering, leaving owners to cope on their own.
“Everyone deals with the loss differently,” Hawkins says. “Some wish to be present, some not at all. Some want ceremony, others simplicity. Some want [it] to be over quickly, others need to take their time.”
Lily and I wanted it over quickly. We had learned as Hawkins arrived that our mother was being prepped for emergency surgery to stop an internal bleed that had sprung following the removal of her tumor.
And we didn’t want Hawkins, who had fit us in between her last two prescheduled visits that day, to run late.
But Coco was in no hurry to die.
Over the next hour, she greedily gobbled the treats Lily fed her as Hawkins hit her with a total of five shots of the sedative cocktail, which works slower in overweight dogs like Coco.
Lily wept, but remained otherwise composed as Coco persisted in trying to rise up onto her only working legs until at last those failed, too.
Slowly, very slowly, Coco weakened until appearing perfectly still, her rheumy eyes locked on the middle distance.
Lily placed a milkbone in front of her snout.
It went untouched.
Hawkins administered the phenobarbital and it was over.
Coco was gone.
Dr. Catie Hawkins
Degrees: UW-Madison doctorate of veterinary medicine and master of public health
Pet: Nilly, a shih tzu mix
Resides: Sun Prairie with her husband and children
Previous career: Middle and high school science teacher
