Euthanise or hope - The hardest decision of our lives | Episode 3

There are moments in life that you can never prepare for - even if you theoretically knew about them. For us, that was the moment when we had to say goodbye to Vito.

Vito was not just our dog. He was family, soul mate, teacher and the origin of our Vitomalia brand. His name lives on in our company, but his place in our everyday lives is empty.

In this episode, we take you on the hardest journey of our lives: deciding whether to give Vito another chance or whether it's time to let him go.

We talk openly about why we decided to euthanise, what thoughts, doubts and fears accompanied us - and why this decision was also a final act of love.

This blog is aimed at all dog owners who may be facing or have faced this decision themselves. We want to share with you what we have learnt to give you the feeling: You are not alone. 

Before we talk about the most difficult decision, we need to take a step back: to Vito's medical history.

Vito suffered from chronic illnesses for years:

• Histiocytic ulcerative colitis (a special form of IBD)

• Autoimmune disease lupus

Both are diseases that are also known in humans - severe, complex clinical pictures that affect the entire body. Thanks to close veterinary care, dietary adjustments and medication (including high-dose cortisone), we were able to give Vito a good life for a long time.

However, these clinical pictures often work against the body. The side effects of the medication weaken the immune system, and even minor stress factors - such as a stay in a kennel - can cause major setbacks.

In January 2025, Vito seemed stable. Despite his illnesses, he seemed happy, enjoyed moving around and was "Vito as usual". We decided to take a week's holiday without dogs - a decision we didn't take lightly. Vito and Amalia went to an experienced kennel.

But on his return, it was clear that something had changed. Vito showed increased diarrhoea, blood in his faeces, weight loss and apathy. He began to refuse food - an alarm signal that is often a last, instinctive step for dogs before they die.

We tried everything: changing his diet, cortisone, nutritional counselling, visits to the vet, even considering testosterone replacement therapy. But the blood tests showed a catastrophic reality: liver and kidneys at their limit, the immune system almost unmeasurable, internal haemorrhages, skin haemorrhages, nosebleeds.

The decision to euthanise a dog is undoubtedly one of the most difficult tasks we face as owners. It is not a purely medical decision, but a deeply emotional and ethical one: when does hope end, and when does unnecessary clinging begin?

This was exactly the question that arose with Vito. A dog who lived with chronic illnesses for years, accompanied by pain, attempts at therapy, hopes and setbacks - and in the end the realisation came that his body could no longer cope. What looked like a decision to us had perhaps long since been made by him from an animal ethology perspective.

Psychologically, such moments are an exceptional situation. Studies in human psychology show that people often fall into so-called cognitive distortions in situations of grief. We repress ("He'll be better tomorrow"), we rationalise ("Maybe it was just the wrong medication"), we develop feelings of guilt ("I should have noticed something sooner"). All of this blocks the sober realisation: the dog has long since signalled that it wants to leave.

Unlike us humans, dogs live exclusively in the moment. They don't worry about tomorrow, they don't fear death like we do. If they refuse food, if they withdraw, if they no longer want to go out, then this is not defiance or drama, but an instinctive reaction to their own physical condition. Many dog owners report that their pet has become "different" in the last few days - calmer, more absent, sometimes even gentle, as if it were saying goodbye.

This is one of the heaviest ethical burdens for us humans: We have to interpret these signs without our dog being able to tell us in words. We have to decide whether we hold on out of fear of loss or whether we let go out of love.

In cynology, we rightly speak of euthanasia as a final act of friendship. This not only means that we do not leave the dog alone, but that we actively protect him from going through a long, painful dying process. This was particularly clear in Vito's case: his tendency to bleed internally meant that if nothing had been done, he would probably have bled to death internally within a few days or hours - a process that the vet described as "agonising".

Nevertheless, the moment of decision remains an exceptional psychological state. Many owners report that they only understand in retrospect how clearly their dog showed that it was ready to go - and that the decision to wait often came out of human pain, not animal need.

For both of us, Lui and Paulina, this was the biggest debate: do we want to wait and try everything - or realise that we've already tried everything?

We spent days, weeks in fact, analysing every symptom, discussing every new attempt, holding on to every hope. But at some point we honestly had to ask ourselves: are we still doing this for Vito - or are we just doing it for ourselves?

The decision to let go of Vito was not a decision to give up. It was exactly the opposite. It was the greatest act of love we could give him. We didn't want him to suffer, we didn't want him to die alone in hospital at some point, we didn't want him to continue to struggle just because we were afraid to say goodbye.

Once we had that clear for both of us, we knew:

During this phase, we learnt that it's not just the blood values or diagnoses that count.
The most important indicator was Vito himself.

We have observed Vito - with a view that goes deeper than the obvious.
And what we saw was clear:

• He withdrew.

• He refused food, even his beloved treats.

• He no longer reacted to stimuli that had previously motivated him.

• His posture was slumped over, his ears were often pricked and his gaze was averted.

This was no ordinary old dog - this was a dog that was at the end of its tether. 

We remember this mixture of hope and repression well.
Paulina often sat with Vito, held out his favourite food, stroked his head and talked to him.
And yet at some point that look came: "Please let go of me."

It was not easy to recognise this.
But it was the moment when we had to redefine our role: no longer to be the ones who heal, but the ones who accompany. 

When we were sitting with Vito in the veterinary clinic, the thing we had been dreading for months happened:
The vet's sober assessment.

She looked at the blood values, examined the mucous membranes, listened to the heart and lungs - and then said in a low voice:
"It's no longer a question of whether it's time, but only when."

When the vet told us that Vito was probably bleeding to death internally - that his red blood cells had dropped to almost zero - we finally realised:
There is no longer a plan B.

And even though we knew it rationally, emotionally... it was an absolute crash. We had tried so many therapies, from nutrition to immunosuppressants to experimental ideas like testosterone as a muscle-building aid.
But in the end there is no medication, only the question: Do we help him to let go? Or do we force him to stay?

When we looked back, we realised that Vito had given us signs weeks before that we had overlooked or suppressed.
His refusal to eat, which became more and more frequent, his apathy, his avoidance of contact - these were all silent messages.

We had hoped that they were just phases.
We explained the symptoms with side effects of the medication, with stress, with everything we could think of.
But looking back, we know that his body had long since begun to shut itself down.

When we were sitting in the vet clinic with Vito, we felt like we were in two worlds at once.
On the one hand, there was hope: maybe the cortisone would work again. Maybe the drip would stabilise him. Maybe we could still find a treatment that would give him a few weeks or months.
On the other hand, there was the quiet but increasingly urgent question: Are we really doing him a favour right now?

We realised at that moment how incredibly difficult this decision is when you are responsible for a living being that you love.
Euthanising is not a question of giving up. It is a question of recognising when the moment has come when responsibility is greater than hope.

So we were sitting in the clinic, Vito on a drip, and we knew deep down that this was no longer a fight he could win. It was a battle we wanted to fight - because we couldn't let go.

When the vet told us "yesterday is best", our world fell apart.
But in the midst of this state of shock, we instinctively knew that if Vito had to go, it would be where he was loved. At home.

We discussed the possibility of euthanising her at home with the vet. She explained the procedures, the options - and also the medical facts that helped us to rationalise this decision.

It quickly became clear to us that we didn't want Vito to associate his last moments with fear. And we wanted Amalia to be there to understand why her companion was no longer getting up. Dogs grieve - and we wanted to give her the opportunity to say goodbye.

When we had set the date for Vito's euthanasia at home, the feeling was almost unbearable.
How do you plan the last hours with a family member?
We were in shock - and at the same time there was this clear thought: we want to make this time as nice, calm and loving as possible for him.

We put Vito in his favourite bed, which we carried into the living room, where he always liked to be. Around him: blankets, pillows, a bit of fresh air. We turned on some music and dimmed the lights.
Amalia was with him the whole time, lying down next to him - a sight that tore our hearts apart and healed us at the same time.

We spoke to Vito, told him how much we loved him and how grateful we were to him. We didn't say: "Everything will be fine." We said: "Thank you for being with us."
That was important for us - and probably for him too.

We cried together, kept quiet, stroked him. And Amalia also said goodbye: she carefully licked his head, lay down at his paws and never left his side.

When we rang the crematorium, we were told that there was no space for an individual cremation with a personal appointment until the following week. We were offered the opportunity to keep Vito in the crematorium's cold store.

However, our vet had already warned us in advance: many owners are shocked after a stay in a cold room because the animal's appearance changes dramatically. The appearance of dogs with soft fur or sensitive skin in particular can change dramatically - a sight that is often perceived as distressing.

It had snowed during the night. The world outside was quiet, white and peaceful. We decided to keep Vito with us for the weekend. We made him comfortable, tucked him in lovingly and made sure the room was cool enough.

It was clear to us that we didn't want to leave Vito in a cold store and get him back on Monday in a condition that was worse for us. We decided to lay him out lovingly at home.

This quiet farewell helped us a lot. It wasn't a "he's gone and we've never seen him again". It was a conscious accompaniment until the last step. What honestly seemed strange to us at first, became completely natural and healing after this weekend to say goodbye in this way. 

What we have learnt from this experience:

• There is no "right" way to grieve. Every person and every dog grieves differently.

• Time at home with the deceased animal can help to understand the loss and consciously say goodbye.

• It's okay to get help - be it from friends, family, other dog people or even professional grief counselling.

• It's okay to be angry, sad, empty or even relieved - emotions during this time are complex and allowed.

We have often paused during these days and said to ourselves: "He is missing. But he no longer suffers." And that has given us strength.