Ever by My Side (35 page)

When it came to Meg, I had no idea how long the various toxins had been in her system; however, she had managed to vomit, and based on the amount of artwork scattered across the floor, an awful lot of what she had swallowed had come back up.

She was trembling and her heart was racing, but her color was good and her pulses strong, and when I listened with a stethoscope I heard no abnormal rhythms or dropped beats.

“What did you do?”

Meg tried to look innocent but her eyes were so wild she could only manage manic.

I let her out into the backyard and she instantly turned into a greyhound, charging around, unable to stop, as though it was a relief to blow off some steam. I began cleaning up the mess in the kitchen. There was no way of knowing if she had purged everything. After vomiting, a dog is supposed to be fed activated charcoal to deactivate the poison. I didn’t have any on hand, but I could get it easily enough. Then again, I wasn’t sure at this stage whether it would make any difference. What to do, what to do? The critics’ corner would be waking up soon. If anything happened to this dog because I provided substandard care there would be hell to pay.

I went outside to check on the patient. It was a brisk morning
and I sensed Meg preferred to be outside, finding the cool air soothing. By now she had transitioned from a relentless gallop to intermittent bursts of energy, zipping across the lawn sprint-stop, sprint-stop, as if she was beginning to calm down but still unable to settle.

“I’ve got something that will help,” I told her, heading back inside to my “stash” and returning with a sedative. I popped the pill in her mouth.

“You stay out here and I’ll keep checking on you. I need to make sure you don’t get dehydrated, and that means plenty of water and no more Red Bull, you hear me.”

She was pathetic, with that look I had seen so many times when Emily was a kid, the pained expression that begs “Please help me.”

For the rest of the day Meg stayed in the backyard, occasionally darting inside, scrambling for traction on the hardwood floor before bolting back outside. It took a good twenty-four hours for her to come back down and, to some extent, it would have been a whole lot easier to have taken her to work and have her admitted for a day. Emily stood vigil over her dog, her doctor at her beck and call, no variation in her condition too small to necessitate a consult. And there was no way to try sliding past her. I discovered there’s only one thing more dangerous than having your own pet sick—dealing with this sick pet’s owner.

In the end, I received little to no kudos for my nursing care of Meg.

“I think Emily blames me for Meg’s caffeine experiment,” I said to Kathy. “And she’s probably right. I mean it’s not as though a dog can suppress her curiosity.”

Kathy offered another possibility.

“I think Emily never felt as though her dog was in any real danger. I bet she’d be different if Meg had been snatched from death’s door.”

Meg was watching us, curled up on her bed, tail beating the floor as I came over to give her a pat.

“You hear that?” I said. “Next time a little more drama might be helpful if I’m ever going to impress my daughter.”

Meg just offered me her goofy smile, happy for the physical contact. Soon after, another incident would prove Meg had been listening, confirmation of that most powerful Labrador trait of all—“We aim to please”!

I have to credit my wife with taking on the biggest burden of living with a Labrador—the provision of adequate exercise. They may not be border collies or Australian cattle dogs or Irish setters, but they can run and run to the degree that you feel like you might never fully satisfy their desire to exercise.

Over the years I have met a handful of Labrador owners who have astounded me with one confession over all others, that being “My Labrador doesn’t like to swim.” (You really thought I might say, “My Labrador’s never hungry!”) When I think about Meg and water I find it hard to imagine how any relative of hers, regardless of color, would not share the Labrador’s innate ability and desire to swim. They make it look easy, their position in the water low, their movement economical and perfectly natural. Meg views an open body of water, no matter its size, as she does food, the attraction magnetic, irresistible, and steadfast. It could be a paddling pool, swimming pool, or a frozen lake in February—give her access and she will find a way to get her body wet.

Swimming has become an integral part of Meg’s exercise, though it never felt as though we had much choice. When Meg was a little more than one year old, Kathy took her down the street to
walk a footpath next to a large lake near where we live. Naturally, as soon as Meg was off her leash, there were playful forays into the water, little doggy paddles out maybe five or ten yards before turning for shore, followed by a shakedown and a mad dash to catch up before another dip proved irresistible.

There were no other dogs and no other people around; however, Meg discovered some new and strange aquatic playmates, the likes of which she had never seen before—two majestic adult swans.

They glided into her peripheral vision from behind some reeds, moving horizontally, keeping their tight formation despite a strong wind whipping up a choppy surface.

Kathy saw them too late, and saw the yellow blur charging down the bank. With a leap, limited air time, and a booming belly flop, Meg was in the water and paddling their way, eager to introduce herself.

“Meg. No. Come back, Meg. MEG!”

At that moment, screaming at Meg to return to shore was about as effective as asking her to chew more slowly, and in her defense, she had no idea who she was up against. The swans saw this lumbering yellow dog advancing toward them, glanced at one another, and set off toward the horizon. I don’t know if swans can be mean spirited, whether they were simply trying to make good their escape or wanted to teach Meg a lesson, but the two white birds set off while maintaining a taunting distance between their tails and Meg’s smiling snout.

Kathy continued to scream, but Meg had locked on to her target, either eager to play their game or incredulous that they wouldn’t stop and say hello. Kathy stood on the shore, the lake stretching out before her, dense forest on all sides with a tiny island about a quarter of a mile off in the distance before the water disappeared around a corner. Meg was swimming into the wind, determined and unruffled. It’s hard to imagine she could have heard much of anything
at water level, and Kathy was hoarse from shouting. By the time Meg was five hundred yards out, all she could see was a yellow dot bobbing among the white caps.

For several minutes she felt certain that Meg would turn around any moment, that she would realize the futility of her mission, until it dawned on Kathy that both the swans and Meg had disappeared, the twinkle of the bobbing yellow dot extinguished.

Kathy didn’t hesitate. Her mind focused immediately on Emily as she pulled out her cell phone and dialed 911.

“My dog’s gone chasing swans and she’s disappeared and I’m pretty sure she’s drowned. It’s my daughter’s dog …”

This was where she began to lose it, the guilt beginning to trickle in as she imagined Emily’s reaction when she broke the news.

“… my daughter has an illness and … the dog means … I guess I was hoping you could help me recover the body, so at least she would have something to bury.”

Kathy had been patched through to the local fire service, a fine group of men and women who knew Emily professionally, having whisked her away to the hospital in the middle of the night when she came down with a bout of the croup. They assured Kathy they would be right there, and in under five minutes two fire trucks had arrived.

“Any sign of her?”

The question came from an older gentleman, barely clinging to enough gray hair to make his military crewcut worthwhile. He appeared to be in charge, perhaps a captain, and he exuded unruffled calm, efficiency, and, most of all, empathy. Whether he was a dog owner, dog lover, or just someone who knew the importance of a dog to a sick child was never clear, but he approached Meg’s situation with the exact same measure of professionalism he might demonstrate for a drowning child.

Kathy shook her head in response to his question.

“I’m guessing it’s been about fifteen minutes since I can say I could definitely see her.”

The captain pondered this detail and turned to his crew, ordering them to get set up. From the back of one of the trucks emerged an orange inflatable boat, a Zodiac, and Kathy watched as a couple of the men began pulling out wet suits, gearing up with scuba equipment.

“Oh, God,” she thought, “I wonder if this is going to be a rescue or a recovery.”

Around this time Whitney appeared. She was at home, on break from college, and Kathy had called her while she waited for the emergency services. Whitney arrived in tears, carrying a large blanket, anticipating the need to have something in which to wrap Meg’s body.

“Let me get my binoculars from the truck,” said the captain, while Kathy and Whitney hugged, consoled one another, and thought about what they would say to Emily, still at school and blissfully ignorant of the unfolding drama.

He returned by way of his crew, who were completing their final preparations before launch, all manner of equipment finding its way inside the craft, including, Kathy noted, something long and hook-shaped, like a fishing gaff.

“They’re almost done. We’re treating this like any other genuine drowning emergency. Besides it’s good practice.” And then, bringing his binoculars up to his eyes, he said, “Let’s have one last look.”

Kathy and Whitney strained to see something on the horizon, willing a distant whitecap to turn yellow, but there was nothing out there.

A full minute passed, and then, “I think I see the swans.”

Still, there was nothing definitive to the naked eye.

Thirty more seconds.

“Yeah, there they are.” And finally the crest of a wave maintained its whiteness, a smudge split into two that acquired shape and turned into tiny bobbing birds.

“We’re all set” came the cry from one of the men in wet suits, a tank of compressed air on his back as he waded into the water, spitting into his face mask. His buddy was about to launch the Zodiac.

“Just a second,” said the captain, working the focus between his hands.

The second passed, no one looking at the water, everyone looking toward the captain. And then, his expression deadpan, slowly shaking his head he said, “She hasn’t got a brain in her head, has she?”

“What?” said Kathy, trying to follow his line of sight and still unable to see anything meaningful.

“Trust a Labrador.” He was laughing now. “Here she comes and she’s still trying to catch those damn swans.” He handed over the binoculars and turned to his men. “It’s okay, fellas, we won’t be needing you.”

It took Kathy a while to work the magnification, but eventually she had Meg in her sights—the two swans up front, cruising back toward the shoreline and looking mighty pissed off by the relentless canine in tow, Meg smiling away, still convinced she was about to catch them.

Five minutes later and Meg was within shouting range, but to Kathy’s horror, Meg remained just as oblivious to her calls as she had when she first set off.

By now, the captain and his entire team were on the shore with Kathy and Whitney, whooping it up like a crowd at the finish line, waving and shouting, trying to get Meg to look their way. For one frightening moment, it seemed as though they would have to make a water rescue after all as the two swans veered off and headed
back out toward the island with Meg, once more, eager to follow. Seeing this, fearing this, the crowd picked up the intensity of its screams and somehow got through to Meg. Maybe she thought everyone had come out to see how well she swam, that she had acquired an appreciative fan club, because finally, after being out in the water for over half an hour, she made an abrupt change in course, clambering in to shore before collapsing on the bank, exhausted.

Whitney wrapped her up in the towel, Meg panting away, eyes darting everywhere as if asking her entourage, “Did you see me? Did you see me?”

“I wonder if she took a break on the island or kept on going around the corner,” said Whitney.

“All I know,” said the captain, “is it’s a good job those swans decided to come back this way. Otherwise I think she’d still be out there.”

Kathy thanked him and his team, promising to drop by with some cookies, and after a while, a stiff wooden puppet dog that used to be a Labrador plodded her way back home.

Like any kid would, Emily enjoyed the tale, relishing her mother’s fear, knowing there was a happy ending and another fine reason to love up her dog, another memorable childhood story, this one beginning with “Do you remember that time Meg chased after some swans?” My involvement came in the aftermath of the adventure, Meg “Phelps” succumbing to an ailment common among dogs that swim excessively in cold water.

“Dad, I think Meggy’s broken her tail.”

Emily’s assessment was perfectly reasonable, the busy beefy otter tail suddenly painful and apparently paralyzed, hanging off her back end like a limp windsock on a still day.