a dog's dash

"...but he said what mattered most of all was the dash between those years."

 (from The Dash, by Linda Ellis copyright 1996)

I've been missing Bennie a lot this past week.  Maybe it's the holidays.  Maybe it was my birthday, which is when I usually reflect on the previous year rather than on New Year's Day.  Or maybe it's just that my heart has healed enough to allow my brain to start thinking about her again.

I still can't believe that she's gone.  That little dog was a fighter from the moment she wandered into my life right up until the moment she took her last breath.  I knew she would fight the ending.  I told Mitchell that she would.  I worried so much about it that I considered putting off the appointment for another day.  I wanted her to give up, but she wouldn't.  Her body had given up;  it was her spirit that hadn't.  Her final days consisted of a cycle of her lying down on the bed, sleeping, and going out to the bathroom.  She had stopped eating altogether three days prior.  Her seizures had increased in frequency and in severity.  I witnessed two that I thought would take her life.  Yet, still she fought.

She fought the injection by the vet.  She had to be catheterized.  She jerked her leg back again.  I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs, "STOP!!!  JUST STOP!  I'm taking her home!"  But, I didn't.  I knew that it was time to let her go.  I knew that her life had lost all pleasure.  I mean, really.  This dog had lived to eat, and now she couldn't be enticed by any of her favorite treats.  I knew that she must be in pain.  Her liver was not working properly.  She was toxic.  It had affected her brain.  I knew that it was time.  I knew that my duty now was not to take her home and keep trying to keep her alive.  I knew that it was my job, my duty, my responsibility, to help her die.  I knew that I loved her enough to face that task.

I left her side and went to the end of the table--to her head.  I cradled her little face in my hands, and I buried my face into her cheek.  "You can go now," I whispered.  "It's OK to let go.  You don't have to fight anymore."  I felt her relax--not from the sedative, but from the comfort of having me close.  She stopped fighting.  She trusted me, and she let go.  She let one last sigh pass through that perfect, little, black, wet nose, and she left her no-longer-useful body behind.  She left me behind.

I debated about sharing her last moments.  I felt guilty for telling her to go when I so desperately wanted her to stay.  I felt like a fraud for putting her to sleep when I should have been doing more to keep her alive.  I felt like a failure for not being able to fix her. 

But, the truth is that I had already fixed her--at least a couple of times.  I had already saved her life.  She probably wouldn't have lived more than a few years longer if I hadn't found her.  She was so heavily infested with heartworms that her heart would have become unable to beat.  She was nearly bald and would have likely lived in constant pain and discomfort from her irritated skin.  She was not yet spayed and would have probably become pregnant again and again, bringing litters of unwanted puppies into the world and becoming more and more depleted and malnourished with each pregnancy and nursing cycle.  She would continue to wander loose, perhaps being hit by a car, maybe being picked up by someone with less than noble motives, certainly never knowing as much love as I would eventually feel for her. 

She wouldn't have received treatment for her heartworms, or if she had, she may not have survived.  She nearly died on me following her second injection.  She wouldn't have had the x-rays that revealed the pain that she lived with daily, her ribs splayed outward on one side, her left rear femur bone had been out of the hip socket for so long that it had created a pseudo socket from wearing down the pelvic bone, and her left rear kneecap refused to stay in place due to the angle of her hip.  She wouldn't have received the care she needed when one of her molars became infected.  It was during the pre-anesthetic bloodwork for that tooth extraction when her liver issues were first hinted at.  She wouldn't have been on a daily supplement to support her liver from that first early warning. 

She wouldn't have survived the gall bladder issue that emerged in May 2012.  She had only missed one meal.  Most owners wouldn't rush their dogs to the vet over that.  I did.  I knew better.  The stars aligned and she received an ultrasound that day that diagnosed the severity of the problem.  Her vet had just been to a workshop on the same topic.  She knew that surgery was the best solution, but didn't feel that Bennie would survive it.  She prescribed a medication that was compounded especially for Bennie.  I believed that she would heal, and she did, surprising every vet who had seen her.  She wouldn't have been put back on the gall bladder medication when things seemed "off" again later that year.  She wouldn't have had the last sixteen months.

And when she had the first seizure, she might not have gone to the vet immediately.  She may not have been diagnosed as being in the end stages of liver failure.  She may not have gotten the medication that helped her body shed the toxins that were building up within it.  She may not have gotten a choice of chicken salad (from Leblanc's, not Albertson's) or hot dogs or cat food or cooked chicken or whatever-she'll-eat.  She may not have been able to stretch a two-week prognosis into a two-month process of living each day to the fullest--a prolonged kiss goodbye.

She would not have had any of these experiences.  She would have lived and died in Indiana.  She would have never seen the inside of a U-Haul truck on its way to Chattanooga.  She would have never lived on or near a mountain.  She would have never spent a week without power after an early Nor'easter.  She would have never been to the city that housed the famous coffee shop where her namesake "donuts" were made and sold by the millions every year. 

She would have never, ever, ever have been as loved as deeply, madly, truly as she was by me.  And, I never would have known what an amazing little soul she was.  I wouldn't have been saved by her.  I wouldn't have known her constant and faithful companionship.  I wouldn't have experienced her soft moments.  My life would have been much emptier.

I miss you, Bennie.  More than words can ever say...

In memory

Beignet

~4/1/97-9/16/13

the accidental cat

Crossing the road and walking past just one house from my neighbor's house to mine, my sister, Laura, and I encountered a little, furry, grey kitten.  "If that kitty follows us to your house, you need to keep it."

I already had two cats.  I wasn't looking for another.  I responded with one of our usual responses--"whatever" or "I'm sure" and kept walking.  The kitten kept walking, too, following us across the yard and up to my front door.

"If this kitty comes into your house, you have to keep it," she said while she literally nudged the little fuzzball with her shoe towards the open door. He walked in.  My fate had been sealed.

That was over 17 years ago, and that little kitten never left, even though he was the only cat I really ever let outside for any length of time.  He loved to roll around on the concrete, covering his back and sides with dirt and dried leaves.  He would literally go out with the dogs and come back in when they were done.  It seemed that for whatever reason this cat had made a conscious decision to live with me.  Maybe he heard and understood Laura's imperative.  We had made a contract with each other, a commitment formed without words.  We were in this together.

From the beginning, Eli was different than any cat I'd ever met.  He seemed somehow mature and knowing.  I spoke to him like he was human.  On some level, he was.  When there were no words, we communicated telepathically.  I believe that it was our connection that saved his life during that first year.

I was doing laundry, transferring a load of items from the washer to the dryer when he somehow got into the dryer.  I didn't see him in there when I started it.  I walked away and started the shower.  I had just climbed in when I heard something and felt my stomach drop to the ground.  I ran to the dryer, opened the door and called for him.  I felt around with my hand.  I didn't see or hear anything right away.  Maybe he wasn't in there.  But, I somehow knew that he was.  My greatest fear had been realized!  Eli had been killed in the dryer!

Then, I heard a faint meow.  I frantically started pulling things out of the dryer until, finally, a visibly shaken Eli wobbled into my hands.  It was late on a weekend night, so I called my vet and requested a call back through the answering service.  When Dr. Dircksen called, he asked me to describe Eli's condition and told me what to look out for.  He agreed to call me every 15 minutes for a status update.  We spoke throughout the night until we were both satisfied that Eli would be ok.  Before we hung up the last time, he pointed out to me that in my initial description I had said that Eli was "extra fluffy" and we had a laugh over that and joked that he was now "April fresh."  He was no worse for the wear from his ride around the inside of the dryer, but years later, Mitchell joked that maybe we should run all of our cats through the dryer to make them come out as cool as Eli.


Whatever lesson he might have learned from this experience, though, certainly wasn't generalized to the dangers of climbing into other large, metal objects.  About 10 years passed without incident, but early one morning, Eli decided to climb into the open trunk of Mitchell's car while he packed for a business trip.  He went unnoticed and seemed unconcerned until Mitchell was over 30 minutes into his voyage.  Somewhere just outside of Andrews, NC, Mitchell heard the panicked and harried meows emanating from his trunk and pulled over.  I was surprised to see him return home, but I wasn't surprised to hear the reason.  Once again, I was just grateful that Eli's curiosity hadn't gotten the best of him and that he had found an effective way to communicate.

Otis

BoBo

It was in that year that Eli's life really changed.  He had already moved with me from Indiana to Tennessee and then to North Carolina, but he had always had his brothers, BoBo and Otis, to keep him company.  Unfortunately, though, BoBo lost his fight to chronic kidney failure that year at the age of 16.  The younger duo missed their older brother, but then welcomed a new brother into their lives a few months later when Manny came to live with us.  Towards the end of the year, Otis got sick for the first time ever in his 12 years.  In January, he was very sick as we made our next move to Connecticut, and by March he had lost his life to intestinal cancer.

Manny

Eli suddenly went from the "baby" of the feline branch of our family to the patriarch.  And, he took his new role seriously.  When Manny pestered me to go outside on the deck with Eli, Eli gave me a knowing look and assured me that he would take his brother under his wing and would keep him safe.  I watched cautiously from the back door as Manny jumped down from the deck into the yard and headed toward the corner of the house.  Eli immediately fell in line, following him and then circling around in front of him and corralling him back into the backyard once that invisible line at the edge of the house had been breached.  I watched him do this time and time again until Manny had been trained to stay inside the area defined as safe by Eli.  Manny was allowed to hunt and play in the backyard, but he knew not to ever leave and he learned from Eli to come in when called.  Eli and Manny became good buddies, and they spend a lot of time together enjoying the sun from our deck.

Alla

Sadly, only a couple of years later, Manny succumbed to intestinal cancer, just as Otis had.  Eli was the only cat in the house for six months until we adopted Alla, a breathtakingly beautiful Birman cat.  She was just seven months old and brought a new energy and youthfulness into the home, and Eli loved playing with her.  Just seven months later, she withdrew from the family and lost weight.  A simple trip to the vet ended in a terminal sentence of FIP (feline infectious peritonitis).  Alla was gone within two weeks, and Eli was alone again.

Hazel

I was devastated by Alla's loss and didn't want another cat, but Eli made it clear that he wanted company.  I was so afraid of losing another pet, but I knew that I would have to take that risk to make Eli happy.  Only one month later, I found myself agreeing to adopt a cat from the Savannah, GA shelter after receiving her picture from a local rescuer.  I met the transport van the next weekend, and Hazel joined our family in a seamless transition.  Eli was happy once again.

Maybe it was his own rescue that inspired him, but I always felt that Eli was my silent partner in fostering and adopting new animals.  He welcomed every cat that came to stay, whether for a short time or for good.  I never heard him hiss at a cat who was scared or confused and who hissed or swatted at him.  He also allowed every dog to paw him, mouth him, and nudge him with its muzzle.  He never showed fear, and he never reacted.  He showed the most spastic, cat-chasing pup that there was more reward in being calm than in running after a cat.  He showed the paranoid, possessive, and territorial dogs that there was no difference between the cat in your yard and the one walking by your yard and, therefore, no need to freak out.  He was brilliantly effective in a completely unassuming way.  He was steady, confident, and constant.  He was literally the coolest cat I'd ever known.

It's now been seven weeks since Eli let me know that after over 17 years he was ready to leave his little body behind.  He had lived for several years with an intense allergy that caused his intestines to thicken and lose their ability to absorb nutrients from his food.  He had been diagnosed through bloodwork after I took him to the vet saying that there was something wrong with his belly.  "He's meowing weird," I said.  "I think his stomach hurts."  The vet looked at me strangely, but then apologized when his values came back.  "How the hell did you know what was wrong?" he asked, and I explained that I just understood Eli. 

I understood Eli, and he understood me.  He was more than a cat.  He was my friend.  He had been my friend since he walked through my front door that night.  I miss my friend.  I miss him so incredibly much.

Alla & Eli

stumbling towards the inevitable

It's been a hard week in many ways.  On Saturday, I drove home from a hair appointment through flooded roads, heavy rain, and booming thunder.  Minutes after I got home, a huge crack of lightning lit of the sky just outside my kitchen window.  I later figured out that many of our circuit breakers had been tripped, the air conditioning was off, and several appliances weren't working.  After visits by the cable company, the electric company, and the gas company (did I mention the strong smell of gas in the house?), it was determined that we most likely had a near lightning strike that had traveled into the house through either the phone lines or the plumbing.  Just about every piece of electronic equipment that was plugged in was fried.  The TV's, the cordless phones, an Xbox, phone chargers, the digital display on the refrigerator, the treadmill, every fluorescent light, and the circuit board that runs the air conditioner were all casualties.  I've suffered through the heat of August in south Louisiana, watched water pour out of a light fixture in the ceiling, and probably swallowed countless lovebugs in my sleep.  But, none of that compares to the pain I've felt since 6:00 this morning.

Brandi with her new red boots.

That's when I found Brandi lying crumpled in a heap on the kitchen floor.  Her neck was pulled hard to the left, and her legs were rigid.  She was clearly attempting to get to the backdoor to go to the bathroom, because she had also lost control of her bowels.  I picked her up, and the stiffness of her body was jarring.  I put her outside on the concrete, where she would normally take a minute to get her legs under her and walk off to the grass.  Instead, she collapsed onto the cement in the same posture in which I had found her.  I left her for a minute while I cleaned up the floor, and I went outside to find that she had urinated on herself, leaving a large puddle that was slowly spreading.  I washed her up and brought her back inside, laid her on her bed, and started crying.

Caught red-handed after digging a hole under the deck.

It's not like I haven't been thinking about this moment for a while now.  It's just that no amount of thinking about it can ever really prepare you for the reality of the situation.  Rational thought has no place in a decision of the heart, and at the very moment I felt my heart break.  Yes, I could point to all of the deficits that Brandi has experienced over the last year, I could recall all of the times she has struggled with bowel control, I could remember when she needed to sleep with diapers on, and I could list the measures that I had gone through to get her to eat.  But, none of those things could make me forget the years that I've known her to be a strong, muscular, vibrant dog.  She may not look the same on the outside, but on the inside, she is as strong-willed and stubborn as ever.

My sleeping beauty.

I won't go through the ups and downs of the emotional roller coaster ride that I've been on today.  Suffice to say, the universe has granted me a little more time with Brandi.  Though she is still weak and uncoordinated, she did manage to hold it all day and (with assistance to remain upright) went to the bathroom in the grass when I got home.  She has allowed me the rarest pleasure of holding her without a struggle.  She slept through a toenail trim and helped me finish my dinner.  She even walked on her own during her final trip outside for the night.  She's back on her bed and tucked in for the night.

I've come to terms with the decision, though--as much as you can ever come to terms with something like that.  I don't know exactly when it will happen, but I trust that it will happen when it's supposed to.  Apparently, I still have some lessons to learn from Brandi.

Brandi loves going to the park.

Mmmm....spaghetti.

Update: Brandi made it clear to me the day after posting this entry that she could no longer fight against the ravages of time and the weakness of her body.  At around 4:00pm on Thursday, August 23, 2012, I was at her side when she left her physical vessel.  As a testament to the kind of dog she was and the effect that she had on people, the veterinarian was crying as she administered the injection and hugged me tightly afterward.  I will forever be grateful that Brandi came into my life and was with me for her final years.  I miss her strong personality and her sweet face.  I miss her gentle, sideways kisses and her less-than-subtle begging.  I miss Brandi and everything about her, and I will never forget her.

24 hours

We have an appointment tomorrow morning at 10:30...just 24 hours from now. I didn't want to make an appointment. It felt like I would be sealing your fate and giving up on you. I didn't want to plan for your death, but I didn't want you to have to wait when your time had come. I called other vets and made contingency plans if you told me that you were ready and your regular vet couldn't see you right away. I even made arrangements with my boss to take time off without notice when the time came. I did all that I could think to do, all that made sense in a completely insane situation, all that my heart told me was right to do. When I noticed on Saturday that your good moments were growing more infrequent, I called and made the appointment. It made me sad to do it, but I felt like we would be taken care of if that was what we needed come Monday morning.

I was so happy on Saturday when you ate so readily and so often throughout the day, but this morning you are not interested in eating and my mind is beginning to reason with my heart. I've taken a hundred or more pictures of you already this morning. I know you're getting annoyed with me, but please be patient while I try to take in every last minute we have together. I know you don't understand what's going on, that you only know that you don't feel well. I want to explain to you how it's supposed to be, all that I imagined for you, and how angry I am that we are both being robbed by this disease. I want you to understand how much I love you, that I have done all that I can for you, and that I believe with all my soul that we will be together once again. I want you to know how much you were wanted, how we chose you from all the cats we looked at and met, and how we would choose you all over again...even knowing what we know now.

I don't know how long it will take me to be able to walk by the dining room and not look for you. I still sometimes look for Otis to be hiding in the back of Bennie's crate, and he has been gone for three years now. I still glance at the front window as I leave for work in the morning, expecting to see Manny watching me go, and he has been gone for a year. I can't imagine that as long as I live in this house I will be able to look into the dining room and not look for you. I can't even bring myself to clean the floor where your wet paws left little, clay-colored prints after a trip to the litterbox. I don't want to vacuum your hair off the chair where you used to sleep. I will look for you there. I will expect to see you come to the dish every time I walk through the doorway. I will miss seeing you lying on the window sill. The room will be empty and lifeless without you in it.

Today you are here with me. Tomorrow, you probably will not. I don't know how to deal with that. I guess I'll figure it out in 24 hours.