After a fairly rapid decline over the past couple of months, Dr. Wife and I made the difficult decision to put Murphy to sleep. I took her yesterday (Monday, 20 July 2026) to our new vet—Murphy’s first visit, and last—and she passed around 1:11 PM EST.

Murphy had developed some arthritis and similar issues in her joints, which made movement difficult. Her back legs, for example, had grown fairly stiff, and she kind of moved them with a playful hop. She adjusted well to the move to the new house at first, but was growing restless at night and having a difficult time relaxing during the day. She’d wander around the house for hours, often just standing still and panting in a hallway. Murph had also began isolating herself in strange places, like the bathmat in our downstairs bathroom.

My previous vet put her on carprofen (ibuprofen for dogs) and gabapentin to help her relax and to help with some of the pain and stiffness in her joints. She also gave us some trazadone for nights when Murphy was really keyed up or having difficulty sleeping. We transitioned Murphy out of the master bedroom into the sunroom, where we had a comfortable bed for her. The sunroom also has a cool tile floor, it’s own air-conditioning, and a powerful ceiling fan, so it’s a very comfortable room.

All of that said, if I didn’t put Murphy in the sunroom and close the door at night, she’d pace around the house panting. It was difficult seeing her struggling to get comfortable, but based on my previous vet’s insights, I really thought Murphy was just adjusting to Dr. Wife and Nugget being at the house full time, as well as the changing landscape of the house as we continue to unpack.

When we left for our cruise, I decided not to ask our excellent dogsitter to give Murphy her medication. I wanted to see how she would do once weaned off of it. In the middle of the cruise, our dogsitter reached out and indicated that Murphy was really struggling, so I instructed her to resume Murphy’s medication. That resulted in an immediate improvement.

However, upon returning home, we noticed that Murphy had bled on some unpacked clothes. The dogsitter had told us about a swollen “elbow”; upon checking it, I found a deep cut on Murphy’s leg. We took her to the 24/7 emergency vet in Laurinburg, North Carolina, and the veterinarian there was very helpful (he reminded me of a gnome—his Coke-bottle glasses magnified his eyes, and he spoke with a thick-but-understandable Indian accent with lots of rolled Rs, which I found vaguely calming). He administered two shots to help with the swelling and infection, and put Murphy on Augmentin, a common anti-bacterial (Dr. Wife likes it for her human patients, too).

At that point, Dr. Wife and I talked about Murphy’s condition. It was clear that, without constant medication, she could not function comfortably. Long-term use of carprofen, however, causes kidney failure, and Murphy had already been using it longer than she should have. Additionally, even with medication, Murphy was clearly struggling. If she wasn’t exactly in pain, she also wasn’t in comfort, either.

Ultimately, we decided that the best option would be to send the old girl across the rainbow bridge. It was not an easy decision for me, but I knew it was best for Murphy. It was also hard on us watching her deteriorate before our eyes. Had it been something more acute—a car hit, definite liver or heart failure (I suspect she was already in the latter), etc.—it would have been easier, but the fact that she could have lingered on in her state of perpetual discomfort made me initially hesitant to make that call. But when I realized she had lost most of her quality of life and was merely existing without ever really getting comfortable, I knew it was time. It was certainly better than letting her linger on for another month—or three, or six—slowly getting worse and worse.

I called our vet yesterday morning as soon as they opened and explained the situation. They got her in for a noon appointment. I spent some time loving up on Murphy that morning, shedding quite a few tears in the process. Knowing that I had to make the call for her made the grief worse, in some ways.

We had a long wait at the vet. Murphy, already in a state of panting nervousness, intensified. I’m not sure if she knew what was coming, as she acts the same way anytime we have to go see the veterinarian. When we got into the little room with the vet tech, I explained things again, stating that we thought it was Murphy’s time. I signed a document that was, essentially, Murphy’s death warrant, which was hard to do. It’s staggering making that call, even when you know it’s right.

We then had another wait while the vet prepared two shots. One was a powerful sedative that calmed her down, putting her into a sleep-like state of total relaxation. The second was the death shot, which the vet told me would take about sixty seconds to take effect.

After the first shot, we had about ten minutes together as she rapidly calmed down. I placed her triangular snout on my leg and told her how much I loved her, and what a good girl she always was, and how much I would miss her. I gave her quite a few head kisses and neck scratches, too. Her eyes glazed over from the intensity of the sedative, which reminded me of when the last vet mixed up labels on some calming medicine, and I inadvertently drugged Murphy too much, and she had a glassy-eyed stare the rest of the day.

Then the vet and vet tech came in with the purple death shot. They turned Murphy so that she was parallel to me (all of this occurred on the floor) and I kept a hand on her while she passed. The vet checked Murphy’s heartrate as the drug took its lethal effect, and announced when the old girl was gone.

I’m writing this update through a veil of tears. Whenever I think about her there on my knee, right there at the end, in those last moments, I can’t help but cry, as I did as we sat there on the floor together.

She was my dog. She will always be my dog. I miss her terribly, and I want to hold her one more time. But I know she’s better off now. Still, it’s so hard. I haven’t cried this hard in a long time.

This Thursday, 22 July 2026 would have been five years since I first brought her home with me. She had thirteen years, one month, and five days, which is beyond the upper end of the breed’s life expectancy.

I know a lot of readers loved Murphy and loved hearing about her antics. She also had quite a following on YouTube, where she’s known as “The Greater North American Bull Terrier.” Here’s an update to YouTube subscribers I recorded yesterday:

I’m so thankful to Dr. Wife and Nugget for their love and support through this ordeal, as well as from my family and Dr. Wife’s family. I was not expecting having to put Murphy to sleep when I left for vacation, but life hits that way. I was incredibly blessed for the time I had with her. I just hope I treated her well, and I wish I’d spent more time with her and been more involved with her, especially over the last couple of years.

But she was always so sweet, always so happy to see me, always so loving and kind, no matter how distracted I got with the busyness of life or traveling or what not. I could be gone for a week and she’d bound up and down, doing that funny little hop with her gimp legs, and sometimes she’d get so excited she’d leap off our back porch. She loved me in a way I didn’t always reciprocate or deserve, but she never seemed to mind.

Here’s the last picture of Murphy I took, in the moments between her first sedation shot and her second “death” shot:

She was a good girl until the end.

Rest in peace, Murphy. I will always love you, and I will always miss you.