A child will break your heart a thousand times.
A dog only once.
And if she could do anything about it, she'd avoid that once.
The vet gave us tech talk and we interpreted it to believe things were better. The three of us crowded in her pen when they let us visit her at noon today.
They said she wasn't eating, but after Charlie gave her the first piece, the bowl was empty. Her tail was thumping and she positioned herself to be pet by Jen, Charlie and I simultaneously. She didn't need that IV in her paw, she just missed her family.
When we left the kennel area, who could hear her barking for us all the way through the exam area and to the parking lot.
They said to call back at 3 and maybe she could come home. We celebrated when they said we could pick her up at 5:30. It was worth every penny for all the tests and procedures.
The scare taught us a lesson about more trips to the village with her, more plain burger runs, more special times together. It forced us to realize how very good she has always been and we were ready to double our efforts in kind.
She was coming home with a lot of prescriptions, some with several refills. Cost be damned, it gave us back our Smokie.
The vet again took us through the tech talk when it started to dawn on me that all the talk about no biopsy because Smokie's liver was too small was not because she'd get better without the biopsy. It was because she was too far gone for it to matter.
Days, weeks, maybe months, the vet finally said when asked directly. They don't do liver transplants in dogs. Smokie was already exhibiting several of the end stage symptoms of liver failure.
The young vet counted them off on her fingers with a "wait don't tell me" anticipation as she struggled to remember the last two.
Still, Smokie wagged her tail when she saw us and was happy to get her collar and leash back. She walked to the car as if we were going to the beach, although Charlie had to lift her in to the car.
I dropped off her prescriptions and picked up some mild dog food.
When we got home she stopped at the dozen brick steps that lead to our front porch and circled back in momentary defeat. She seemed to consider the things waiting beyond the door, backed up and did the stairs in one quick, continuous burst of energy.
But she wouldn't touch the food. And she quickly became weaker and less responsive.
I went back to the store, picked up the prescriptions and bought a whole roast chicken. Charlie shredded the chickem, her favorite food, to the smallest of pieces but she couldn't take even a sliver from his hand or the bowl. It hurt to watch the effort to lift her head.
She craved the hourly cup of water she was allowed, but could not keep it down.
All three cats circled and watched. Smokie's buddy , Little Bit, licked her several times before rubbing his face against hers a few times and then leaving the room. We started recognizing we too would have to say goodbye.
Nick and Jen came home from a date expecting to find Smokie on the mend. Jen was instantly brokem.
Nick did much more than give Jen the love and support she needed. After the decision was made to end Smokie's suffering tomorrow (if she makes it through the night) he went through the house helping me find all of Smokie's things and then took them to his car so we wouldn't have to deal with them tomorrow. He's a class act all the way.
After he finally went home, his Mom called to see what she could do. She volunteered to send Nick back to help Jen through the night.
We gladly took her offer. He's on his way as I write.
Our dog is still breathing. Eyes that look something like hers once did ocassionally open and follow one of us across the room. But she's gone.
Like everyone who has ever lost a well-loved friend, it's impossible right now to believe there ever was or will ever be another animal anything like her.
We were so lucky she choose us. We would have loved to have more, but she gave us nearly nine wonderful years.
That's the thought I'm going to try to hold when Jen, Charlie and I gather at the beach tomorrow afternoon.
The dog who's barely holding on right now as Charlie lays with her on the floor coaxing each breath, will surrender tomorrow morning.
Our Smokie is already playing on her favorite beach.



Copyright 2004 Judi Griggs