Chicken Soup for the Pet Lover's Soul (37 page)

I started bringing Emma with me on short trips. I sensed that she
knew something
and I was determined to find out what it was. We drove up the California coast, and I would stop and let her explore whenever she became especially interested in the surroundings. I let her take the lead and followed her as she trotted along old redwood paths and discovered hidden coves. We pawed around with starfish in the moonlight and barked joyfully back at the seals. We raced up and down the shoreline until we were exhausted. I began noticing the smell of it all—fresh clover, seaweed, sage. My hearing, overburdened by the recording studio, began refining and I heard the smaller sounds of nature, like mouse feet or a lizard on a twig.

The dog was my teacher. I watched as she greeted each stranger with curiosity and warmth, graciously prompting me to introduce myself to these often fascinating individuals. I grew to love her frank and friendly nature. The seemingly irreparable scars from my abrupt losses were slowly dissolving as I learned to appreciate the impossibly simple joys of a dog’s life.

Emma’s influence extended into my music career as well. We were inseparable in the recording studio during the making of two of my most successful CDs. Recording sessions went more smoothly when she was present. Whether sleeping at my feet or being the tireless greeter and relaxer of people, Emma brought musicians together. We laughed more when she was around, and that laughter found its way into the music. There is a photo of us on a stretch of open road in the booklet for one of my CDs and it captures the two of us accurately: wandering in the big world, satisfied just being together.

Some years later, when Emma was eight, she became sick. Exploratory surgery revealed that she had advanced cancer and her vet, a wonderful man named Dr. Martin Schwartz, told me that it was possible she had no more than a month remaining.

The following week was heavy with silence. Evenings, we sat together on the porch, waiting for the stars to come out. Like the many peaceful moments we had shared before, we sat shoulder to shoulder, listening for bits of news whispering down the leaves, watching the fall of light and savoring each other’s company. It was useless to talk, but sometimes I sang to her and she appeared to smile.

When I realized she didn’t intend to eat any more, I brought her to the vet’s for a day of IV feeding to bring back her strength. That whole day, all I could think about was picking Emma up and taking our walk on the beach at sunset. On my way out the door, I happened to look in a drawer and found an old tie tack of Daddy’s. I slipped it into the pocket of my jeans as a sort of talisman against the inevitable. I must have known we were near the end.

When I arrived at the vet’s and asked for Emma, the nurse said softly, “The doctor wants to speak with you.” I felt her gentle words slam into me as I sank into a chair, and the tears came up from an ancient river of defeat.

Dr. Schwartz told me that Emma wasn’t strong enough to leave the clinic. He took me back to where my best friend was lying on a blanket on the floor and left us alone together. I lay down beside her.

She had been dying all day, but she wasn’t going to go until I was ready. Filled with a deep gratitude that she had waited to share this with me, I rested my cheek on her neck, and with my hand laid softly over her heart, I began to sing.

Without any effort, a simple melody came to me. It was a love song, long ago forgotten, about a love as big as the world itself.

We had so little left, but I needed her to know, or somehow to feel, the steadfast loyalty of my heart. A song can go places unreachable by word or gesture, and despite her weakness, her eyes almost smiled.

Then her body began to strain and I knew that this was it. From my past experience with sudden death, I expected a struggle, a violent resistance to life’s end. Holding her with my eyes closed, I braced myself. Instead, I felt a sudden wave of ease and comfort wash over us. My fear vanished, and I marveled at how peaceful it was. She died right there next to me in the gentleness of that moment.

I opened my eyes to find just a body, still and empty. The joy, the spark that had taught me so much, had vanished. Emma was gone.

In my earlier, bitter years, I had angrily asked God to show me his face. But this evening, I had no argument with heaven. His answer, more perfect than I could have ever imagined, had come through this little dog. For it was Emma’s gentle dying that released me from the persistent pain of my early tragedies. And it was her surprisingly wise way of living that gave me back my life.

Jennifer Warnes with Shawnacy Kiker

Rites of Passage

Some of the most poignant moments I spend as a veterinarian are those spent with my clients assisting the transition of my animal patients from this world to the next. When living becomes a burden, whether from pain or loss of normal functions, I can help a family by ensuring that their beloved pet has an easy passing. Making this final decision is painful, and I have often felt powerless to comfort the grieving owners.

That was before I met Shane.

I had been called to examine a ten-year-old blue heeler named Belker who had developed a serious health problem. The dog’s owners—Ron, his wife, Lisa, and their little boy, Shane—were all very attached to Belker and they were hoping for a miracle. I examined Belker and found he was dying of cancer.

I told the family there were no miracles left for Belker, and offered to perform the euthanasia procedure for the old dog in their home. As we made the arrangements, Ron and Lisa told me they thought it would be good for the four-year-old Shane to observe the procedure. They felt Shane could learn something from the experience.

The next day, I felt the familiar catch in my throat as Belker’s family surrounded him. Shane seemed so calm, petting the old dog for the last time, that I wondered if he understood what was going on.

Within a few minutes, Belker slipped peacefully away. The little boy seemed to accept Belker’s transition without any difficulty or confusion. We sat together for a while after Belker’s death, wondering aloud about the sad fact that animal lives are shorter than human lives.

Shane, who had been listening quietly, piped up, “I know why.”

Startled, we all turned to him. What came out of his mouth next stunned me—I’d never heard a more comforting explanation.

He said, “Everybody is born so they can learn how to live a good life—like loving everybody and being nice, right?” The four-year-old continued, “Well, animals already know how to do that, so they don’t have to stay as long.”

Robin Downing, D.V.M.

Saying Good-Bye

What troubled me most was the recurring thought:
I
didn’t get to say good-bye.

I was away from home for the weekend. The door was left open and my two white shepherd-mix dogs, Lucy and Hannah, had gotten out. My husband called me on Saturday night to tell me that Lucy had been hit by a car. She was alive, but her back legs were severely injured. The vets were observing her and would decide what to do on Monday. He told me not to come home since there was nothing I could do.

I started driving home on Monday morning, calling every few hours en route to get a progress report. With my first call I learned they had decided to amputate one of her hind legs. Many anxious calls later, the vet’s office told me the operation had gone smoothly and Lucy was resting comfortably. I knew I wouldn’t arrive home in time to see her that day, but they told me I could come as soon as they opened on Tuesday.

Tuesday morning, I was getting ready to leave when the phone rang. It was the vet.

“I’m sorry, but we lost her during the night,” he told me. “Last night, I went to the clinic for an emergency call around two in the morning, and I went in to check on your dog. She was laboring for breath, so I gave her some medicine. Then I sat with her—I was holding her when she died.”

My breath wouldn’t come and I felt hollow inside. I hung up the phone and my husband took me in his arms. While he tried to comfort me, I thought:
Oh, Lucy, I’m glad
you didn’t die alone. Did you think I’d abandoned you? Now
you’re gone and I’ll never see you again
. What I also thought was:
Not again
.

Only two weeks earlier, one of my best friends, Sandie, had been killed in a car accident. I received an equally shocking phone call and then, grief. She was gone and I’d never see her again. Too much for me to take in, it hadn’t seemed real. And now, neither did Lucy’s sudden but permanent absence from my life.

My other dog, Hannah, had seen Lucy get hit. She still seemed confused and upset, searching frantically for Lucy whenever she went outside. I decided that we both needed a strong dose of reality. I called the vet back and asked him not to do anything with Lucy’s body—I was coming over and I wanted to see her.

While I felt it was the right thing to do, I still felt apprehensive. I had never seen a dead body in my life—much less the dead body of anyone I had known and loved. Could I handle it?

Hannah and I drove to the vet’s office. I had Hannah on a leash as we walked into the room where Lucy lay. I don’t know what I was expecting, but the still white form lying on the table was devastatingly beautiful to me. Hannah, distracted by all the interesting smells of the vet’s office, had her large nose to the ground and wasn’t aware of Lucy until I gently pulled her over to the little waist-high table where Lucy lay. Lucy’s tail, her three remaining paws and the tip of her nose stuck out over the table’s edge. The instant Hannah’s nose scented Lucy’s tail, her eyes actually widened. She walked slowly around the table, sniffing every inch of Lucy that she could reach. When she was done, she lay down at my feet, rested her head on her paws and sighed loudly.

I stroked Lucy and felt the texture of her upright ears, her soft fur and the denseness of her muscular body. She looked the same but she felt different, cold and somehow more solid. It was certainly her body, but Lucy was gone. I startled myself by leaning over and kissing Lucy on the head. There were tears running down my face as Hannah and I left.

Hannah was subdued for the rest of the day, her agitation completely gone. For the next few weeks we babied her, taking her for more walks, giving her extra treats and letting her sleep on the couch—a previously forbidden zone. She seemed to be adjusting and perhaps even enjoying her new “only-dog” status.

For me, losing Sandie and then, so immediately, Lucy had been hard. Yet it was actually seeing Lucy’s body that finally made the concept of death real. After that, the way I experienced my losses—Lucy, Sandie, even my father, who’d died twenty years earlier—shifted, and as time passed, I could feel that I was steadily healing and moving beyond the pain. It helped to have Hannah to comfort and be comforted by, and I was moved by the unwavering support and love my husband and close friends offered me.

It has been three years since Sandie and Lucy died. I am amazed at how often I still think of them. But now it is always with wistful fondness and a smile, the pain long gone. I am glad that I had the courage to go and see Lucy one last time. For she taught me how to say good-bye.

Carol Kline

Toto’s Last Christmas

Snow fell softly on Christmas Eve as I made my final patient rounds. The old cat, fragile in his downy white coat, was sleeping. Days before, his owner had dropped him off to spend the holidays with us. Sadly, she had worried he might not make it to greet her in the New Year. Indeed, the day after she dropped off the cat, I called to warn her that he was failing. Her tear-choked voice let me know she understood. “No heroics, please, Dr. Foley, but let him rest easy and make him as comfortable as you can.”

Soft blankets along with a heating pad were wrapped around his frail body to keep him warm. Puréed chicken and tuna had been offered and declined, and now he slept in the deepest of sleeps. Not wanting Toto to be alone in his condition on this holiday night, I wrapped him in a large wicker basket and carried him home.

A gust of wind blew the door from my hand as I entered the house. My cat, Aloysius, greeted us while my other cat, Daphne, peeked timidly from the corner of the room, sniffing appreciatively at the cold winter air. They both knew what a wicker basket with an electric cord hanging from it meant. Aloysius retreated haughtily across the room.

Rescued as an abandoned cat from a clinic I worked at previously, Aloysius has been with me for twelve years— through vet school, my first job and my first home. Other people see him as just a cat, but for me his presence has become a constant in my life. Aloysius is the one who listens to all my tales of woe. On the down side, he is possessive and has a low opinion of anyone, feline or other, who infringes on his territory.

Daphne had come to me a timid and yet ferocious feral tabby kitten that no one could tame. Ten years of love, patience and roast beef tidbits had paid off. Now a round and sassy butterball of a cat, her heart was mine. To keep the peace in the house, however, she usually agreed with Aloysius on the subject of uninvited guests. Sensing his disdain for the fellow in the basket, she politely hissed from the corner.

“Now, now, you big bullies,” I said. “This fellow is old and may be leaving us soon. We wouldn’t want him to be alone on Christmas Eve, would we?”

Unmoved, they glowered from beneath the Christmas tree.

Old Toto slept on in his basket. I placed him by the table in the kitchen and plugged the cord for his heating pad into the wall. My husband, Jordan, and I prepared our Christmas Eve dinner while Toto slept, and I checked on him every once in a while to be sure he was comfortable. Daphne and Aloysius, still resentful of our guest but moved by the smell of grilling steaks, crept into the room. I warned them that Toto was old and frail and to be good hosts, they must let him be.