Dog Days
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Wednesday, January 17th, 2007I’m playing the blame game. For however much I miss my dog I know that there is an outside possibility that her early death may have been due in part to my negligence in getting her checked.
Early last year she had a minor operation in which her blood results came back showing raised liver enzymes. I put in the diary to take her back two months post-op to have them re-checked. As the weeks went on I noticed that she was taking longer to eat her dinner. ‘When she goes in to have her enzymes checked, I’ll get them to clean her teeth and take out any that might be bothering her,’ I thought. I put it in the diary to remind me.
Her annual vaccination date eventually came round. While I was at the vets I finally made the appointment to have her teeth cleaned. But by then it was too late: a couple of days before the appointment she started having diarrhoea so I postponed it. The evening before that same appointment her stomach swelled with ascites and that was the beginning of the end.
She died seven weeks after the first clinical signs. But because of a chance operation earlier in the year we were given a sign that all may not have been well. Because I am busy with three small children and all the daily crap that life entails she got pushed to the bottom of the pile. The liver is one of the few organs in the body that has this amazing capacity to repair itself. But I missed the chance I was given. She would have died of liver failure eventually. She might already have had advanced liver disease when the first blood results came back. But she also might have had a bit longer with us. Except I was too busy. And that’s what I’m finding just as hard to come to terms with as her death. Too busy doing what? What have I got to show for all that busy-ness except my dog that is no longer here?
I had no New Year’s resolutions this year except to love and look after my family. To care for them. To make Brin’s last days as comfortable and full of love as possible. To look after myself so that I can look after everyone else. I have learnt a very hard lesson in the last few months. I have learnt the hard way what is important about life. And amidst all that I’m coping as best I can while I grieve for her.
I miss her more than I can say. And knowing that I may have contributed to her early death is something I will have to live with for the rest of my life.
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Posted in Dog Days
Massive dose of anaesthetic
Wednesday, January 10th, 2007
The end, when it came, came quickly.
Brin’s appetite waned after the surgery but she ate enough now and then to survive another day. Sometimes she would eat some bread, sometimes a bit of ham, other times I sat with her as she refused everything, clearly feeling too sick. Then a bit later she would eat a bit more, flooding me with relief that her time had not come. She continued to go out into the garden, occasionally barking at a passing bird or squirrel, reminding them that she might be dying but this was still her territory. She ventured into the fields, not going far, sometimes content to sit next to me in the warm winter sun as we watched for deer and pheasant. On Monday she seemed better than ever, eating the spaghetti bolognese I cooked for supper. But on Tuesday she was looking unsteady on her feet. At lunchtime she came to find me in the playroom, a place she usually avoided because of the risk of being trampled underfoot by too many rowdy children. She swayed when she sat in her basket, a sign that the disease was starting to affect her brain. When she came in a second time I could see she was frightened by what was happening to her. I called Matthew home and sat with her as she lay quietly in her basket.
When we reached the vets Matthew carried her in and lay her on her favourite blanket. She was calm. I held her head and reassured her, whispering to her, as the injection was given. It took only seconds.
In some ways that was the hardest thing. There was no ’sleepiness’, just there one minute, gone the next. I had imagined she would close her eyes as if falling asleep and then gradually stop breathing, even though the vet had told me it would only take a few seconds. Instead her head relaxed into my hands with her eyes open just the way she had been looking at me as the anaesthetic was administered. I keep replaying it in my mind, a form of shock, I suppose, at seeing her die.
Part of me also feels such shock at having to choose to end her life even though her deteriorating condition effectively made that decision for me. It was my last responsibility to a dog that had given such love and companionship. But you find the courage to perform this last duty, you carry it out and then you leave and the world continues as if nothing has happened. Nobody really cares how much you cared about your dog. It was just a dog, after all.
Her death has brought a deep and lonely grief. She was my first ‘baby’. I loved her, cared for her, looked after her, cut knots out of her ears over and over and then over again, I stroked her soft fur, comforted her when she was in pain, sat with her when she was frightened. In turn she was everything you could hope for from a dog. But she died too young - she should have had another five or six years with us - and to have had such a lovely dog for only such a short time seems so unfair and I am finding that hard to accept. Everywhere in the house there are reminders of her and one by one I am removing them, unwillingly because it feels disloyal, as if I don’t want any part of her here anymore.
She died seven weeks, almost to the minute, she showed the first signs that anything was wrong. For the first five of those we didn’t know she was dying. For the last two weeks of those she was very poorly, living on borrowed time. I didn’t get a last chance to video or photograph her running in the fields, draped across the bottom stair, chasing her sister up and down the hallway, something I really regret. If I’d known she was dying I would have walked for hours with her, given her her favourite foods, spent more time with her. I wish I’d known.
As we left the vet’s office I turned to him and whispered reduntantly, ‘take care of her.’ My little dog, who didn’t stay with me nearly long enough.
Gun Dog
The fields here go on and on
the sun is warm, the wheat is long
I run and run and chase the birds
and catch your trail of distant words
Children shout and chase around,
their laughter just a drifting sound
The pheasant just a bit less fast
I think of all I’ve loved that’s passed
For now your soft hand strokes my head
and here I wait for you instead
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Posted in Dog Days
End stage
Thursday, December 28th, 2006On Saturday my poorly dog came home from the vet sore and sleepy. She couldn’t even get up and wasn’t drinking or eating but we expected her to be more herself on Sunday.
On Sunday she was worse, wimpering and not moving. Unable to tell whether she was recovering or dying, Matthew and I discussed calling the vet to put her to sleep. I cried and cried. Our guests arrived and Brin wimpered with excitement mixed with pain. We decided to see how she was in the morning. I sat with her, stroking her soft brown head as she looked at me with pain filled eyes.
On Christmas morning she got up like her old self, went outside, had a wee, came in and had a drink and breakfast. But as quickly as she seemed better, she got worse. When I was with her, her wimpering lessened so Christmas night I stayed up, sitting by her bed, grieving for my dying dog.
On Tuesday morning she wouldn’t get up. I called the vet to come and put her down. I asked my father came round to take the boys out while the vet was here. The boys said goodbye to her.
And then she decided to get up, have breakfast, go out to the garden, woof at a passing pheasant and wander back through the house into the living room. She looked bright eyed. The vet arrived and agreed that it was not time. So she spent Boxing Day and yesterday with her family, eating a little bit now and again, joining in the festivities from her bed in the corner. She is very poorly but she is still enjoying family life.
That was all I hoped for this Christmas.
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Posted in Dog Days
The crap bit of a vet’s job
Friday, December 22nd, 2006I am in the crowded mall with jingly-jangly Christmas music and public service announcements juxtaposed with the din of shoppers, marking time while the dog is operated on at the specialist vet in town.
My cellphone rings. The Bristol area code prepares me that it’s the vet calling.
‘It’s not good news about Brin I’m afraid,’ he says, his voice dark.
They are in the middle of surgery. He tells me how damaged her liver is and how poor her prognosis is. We discuss how her quality of life has been deteriorating daily.
As I try to take this all in, he asks if he should even bring her round from the anaesthetic. I stand there quietly crying as people walk past me. I ask them, yes, to bring her round.
And so tomorrow I will be bringing my dog home to have a final cuddle with us, so I can tell her how much I have loved her, before she dies.
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Posted in Dog Days
Bad news comes in threes
Sunday, November 26th, 2006Last weekend Matthew received a phone call from his family, one of those phone calls which starts with ‘you’d better sit down, I’ve got bad news’. We are all still reeling from the call. He has spent this weekend visiting his family. It feels like he has been away every weekend for about two months and I’m feeling the fallout.
On Monday I took Ben to the hospital for further tests because the first round of results were inconclusive. More needles. Not much fun for either of us. He is also suffering a nasty stomach bug which has given him diarrhoea. The upside of this is that his bowel movements are at last normal!
On Tuesday my beloved springer spaniel Brin - the sh*t eating, wee drinking one - got up suddenly off the stairs, clearly unwell, with a stomach the size of a balloon. I rushed her to the vet, as much as you can rush anywhere when three children are in the middle of their supper and need a military operation to get them ready for even the shortest trip anywhere - where she had the fluid removed overnight and they investigated the cause. Apart from my obvious concern for her, I was also concerned that I would miss the inaugural meeting of our book club which had already been cancelled twice and would be going ahead no matter what and bugger if I was going to miss a much anticipated glass of wine and a good night out. So I made my mercy dash, rushed back, put the boys to bed, fed the baby to sleep, rocked him to a deep slumber and laid him down without breathing (me, not him) lest I woke him. Already late, I looked at my dog-hair covered clothes in despair, cursed the vet that made me lift the dog onto the table despite her obviously painful stomach and covering me in hairs, grabbed my bag and left. For two glorious hours I was able to forget about all these problems and enjoy some intelligent, adult conversation.
Since the dog got home she has been almost totally incontinent so the last few days have been spent washing dog beds - she likes to use all four dog beds but that has had to stop - preparing special hepatic food (she has advanced liver disease), mopping urine-covered floors and washing the dog repeatedly.
I feel exhausted, physically and emotionally. I need a break. I’d opt for an empty house, a bed and a great book but then I’m easily pleased.
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Posted in All Gone Wrong, Dog Days
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