Requiem for a dog.

Last Wednesday morning, as we always do, the Bug and I tied the dog outside on the deck before leaving the house. That evening, my husband, who had gotten home before us, called to say she was acting strange. She wouldn’t walk, wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t jump up and run in circles barking at the mention of a ride or a walk. She just lay on the floor, looking guilty.

Had she eaten a shrew or a squirrel, perhaps a dead bird? Had she jumped and pulled a muscle? Eaten gravel, which she had done a few weeks ago? The last time she acted odd, we took her to Pet Emergency, where they charged us a fortune to tell us she had indigestion. So we decided to wait till morning before acting.

In the morning she was no better, so we brought her to our vet. They ran tests, took x-rays, rehydrated her. She was “blocked up”, they said, but they didn’t know why. By evening, they suggested we take her to Pet Emergency for possible surgery, but the vet there hesitated to operate. We decided to give her another day to see what happened.

So there we were, basically waiting for the dog to take a shit. We joked about bringing her some prunes, or maybe Metamucil. At least the vet would have to do the clean-up, and we’d have her home by the weekend.

And then the vet called. She had a feeling something more was going on. She wanted to do an ultrasound. My husband and I consulted nervously. Our first dog, Kia, had an ultrasound and it turned out to be stomach cancer. Okay, we agreed, trying not to think how much it was all costing. What choice did we have?

That evening, the Bug and I stopped by the clinic to visit. Kiska lay in her kennel, an I.V. through her front leg. She gazed at us sorrowfully, not getting up. A bright orange sign hung on her door: MAY BITE.

Bite? Our sweet gentle girl who let the Bug do just about anything to her, bite? Then the vet called me in, and I could tell by her face she did not have good news. It was a mass, she said, in her small intestine. A mass? I asked. You mean a tumor? She nodded. They could try to remove it surgically, but if the cancer had spread, chances were it wouldn’t matter. Besides, she’s an old dog, and even if she survived the surgery, she might not make it through the recovery.

We wanted to know how much time she had, especially after we took her outside and she became lively and bouncy again. Could we take her home for the weekend? my husband asked. No, but we could probably bring her home for the night. The vet gave her a dose of pain medication to keep her comfortable while we called a close friend, also a vet, who said she could come to the house in the morning to put Kiska down. At least we’d have a little time to say goodbye.

But after a couple of hours at the house, it was obvious she wasn’t going to make it. She couldn’t settle down, wouldn’t touch food. Once she let out a whine that sent chills right down my back. The Bug worked on a puzzle next to her. The cat came over and rubbed against her, purring. We pet her and kissed her and told her how much we loved her. We cried until we couldn’t breathe. Then my husband took her back to the clinic. Later he told me she licked the vet’s face as the anesthetic was going in.

We’ve had at least one dog in our family for the last fifteen years. Now the house seems empty and quiet, with only a few visual reminders of her absence – tufts of the white fluff she was eternally shedding, her disgusting half-eaten rawhide. I listen for her irritating high-pitched bark at the back door, her cat-like lapping of water, or her tags jingling in the morning. Still, I reflexively put leftovers on the floor for her. As we enjoy the crisp cold sunny days that presage winter snow, I keep thinking we need to take her for a walk. Out of the corner of my eye I catch false glimpes of her, snoozing at the foot of the Bug’s bed, or more likely, with her head on his extra pillow.

She was such a part of our daily routine, one we didn’t realize was so important to the fabric of our days until now, when she’s no longer here. This was a dog who was young at heart until her very last day; we joked that if she had only one leg left, she’d run away on it. Of course we knew this day would come. We just didn’t know it would be so soon.

This morning, the Bug said it made him feel sad not to have her leaping at the door to come for a ride when we left. “Who will guard me at night?” he demanded.

Don’t worry, I told him. Kiska’s still guarding you, and she can see a whole lot better from where she is now.