My Best Friends Have Hairy Legs (11 page)

Medications—especially pain medications—were limited because of the impact on her liver. The safest alternative was equivalent to an aspirin and only once a day so I usually gave it to her at night so she could sleep better. I also started her on a liquid Milk Thistle extract twice a day in her food to help her liver function.

In January 2008 when she started to throw up undigested food from the day before, I worried another problem had developed and she spent a day at the vet’s getting x-rays and blood work. X-rays showed what we already knew. Her bladder was full of stones. Her liver was smaller than normal and tucked up under her ribs in a hard to reach place. There weren’t any obvious issues with her stomach so she was referred for an ultrasound.

When her blood work results came back, the vet waited 48 hours before calling me. The results were so off the chart abnormal that she consulted one of the teaching universities for advice. Tink’s liver was technically non-functioning. Levels like hers had not been seen in a live dog that was as healthy otherwise as Tink was. She should have been dead, but was very obviously not. She wasn’t even suffering seizures or dementia, and was certainly not emaciated. Early on when she started to put on weight from one of the first prescription diets, a neighbor’s little boy started calling her his “Little Sausage” and the nickname still fit. The university recommended a surgical biopsy of her liver. I could take her to them and leave her there for tests and then pick her up a few days later. There were risks of course—she might not survive the surgery based on her liver function tests even though she appeared to be perfectly healthy. I refused the recommendation. The last thing I wanted Tink to remember was her “mom” turning her over to strangers who would torture her with needles before she died. No thank you.

When she went for her ultrasound, she had to fast from the night before. I was diligent about removing every possible speck of food or treat from her reach the night before, and when she didn’t get breakfast the next morning she stomped her feet and grumbled at me. So when the vet called and asked why I had given her food I was shocked. The ultrasound had showed food in her stomach, and a possible mass as well. I told him there was no way she had gotten anything to eat in the last 12 hours. His recommendation was a follow-up ultrasound in 30 days, or an endoscopy to biopsy the mass. I decided to wait and looked for other alternatives. I wasn’t comfortable with any kind of invasive tests on her. I was worried she wouldn’t survive.

I took her to a vet that offered holistic and alternative treatments on the recommendation of my regular vet office. She had a water acupuncture treatment with B-12 injections, and was put on Chinese herbs and a dehydrated raw food diet supplemented with steamed meats. After the first treatment, she seemed to respond well—better than expected. But after her second treatment she seemed to crash. Her pain intensified and for the first time she woke me several nights in a row thrashing and crying in pain. A second ultrasound didn’t show any mass on her stomach, but it also didn’t show any obvious reason for her sudden increase in pain. Her gall bladder was slightly enlarged, but didn’t show any stones, and her liver again looked abnormally small. They also wanted to do surgical biopsies of her liver and gall bladder, but I refused. The risks were too high.

I decided then that if she wasn’t going to have quantity—a long life - that she was going to have quality. I stopped all treatment except for occasional pain medications and natural herbs. No more painful needle sticks for blood draws. No more tests or ultrasounds.

She went to day care any day she wasn’t obviously limping because she just got so much joy from going. She stayed on a low protein diet, but wasn’t severely restricted. When she wanted a treat, she got one as long as the proteins were less than 10%. She preferred raw baby carrots because they were so crunchy. When she grumbled that I’d been on the computer too long, I logged off and sat with her on my lap watching TV. I learned to hold a book and turn pages with just one hand when she fell asleep on my other arm. At night when she slept on top of the covers between my legs I learned how to ease my legs up to my chin without waking her when I needed to go to the bathroom—or when a leg cramp woke me.

I talked to her constantly, telling her how much we loved her, how happy she made us, and what a wonderful dog she was. I gave her massages every night. When she was too sore to go to day care, I would take her for a ride around the block and let her sit on my lap with her head out the window, the breeze making her little ears flap. She was happy.

Trooper sensed a change in how I was treating her and while he still played and stalked her, he seemed to be extra gentle with her. More often than not I would come home from work to find the two of them curled up together on the sofa. He was extra protective of her when we were outside or people were in the house. Even the cats seemed to treat her differently. Ebony had always given her face a bath, but now I even caught Oreo giving her kisses occasionally and Mandy would sleep next to her on the bed.

There is a Contemporary Christian song by Toby Mac called “Love Is in the House” and part of the chorus line is “Love is in the house and the house is packed, so much so I left the back door cracked.” That was our house with Tink in it. She didn’t have any special talents—she couldn’t whisper or speak when asked, but she could sure grumble and mumble when she wanted attention. She didn’t always come on command—her “hearing” was selective and dependent upon whether or not she was done meeting and greeting someone else or if you had a treat in your hand. While she was house-broken, there were times when her bladder stones would suddenly shift and the pressure built up by the urine would cause her to suddenly let loose—there wasn’t any intent when it happened and the shocked look on my face was matched by her own. She could be demanding, stubborn, and at times snored loud enough to shake drown out the sound on the TV or radio. But she could love. She loved everyone unconditionally. No questions asked. She didn’t care who you were, where you came from or what you had done. She loved and was always happy to see us. Her love was so powerful it could heal all of us. It did heal all of us.

I thought we could go on like that forever.

C
HAPTER
11

Letting Go

In May I had spent a ten day vacation in Alaska reconnecting with a long lost cousin and the dogs had been boarded where they went to day care so I knew that both of them would be well cared for. I had thought carefully about whether or not to board Tink and had looked at getting someone to stay at the house with her, but finally decided that both dogs would be miserable if they were separated for that long. Explicit instructions were left for Tink to only get a few days of exercise so that she would not get over tired, and both dogs were kenneled in the same run at night so they could sleep together like they did at home. I left enough pain medicine for her to get a dose every night, and since she would be getting it more often, put less in each dose than what I usually gave her every two or three nights. A friend would check on the cats every other day. All my bases were covered.

When I returned home and picked up the dogs they were ecstatic to see me. Tink didn’t appear to be limping any more than normal so I wasn’t worried about her. At the house, Mandy meowed and yelled at me for almost 18 hours before I finally was forgiven for leaving. The first few days I was home it was impossible for me to do anything alone. Even going to the bathroom in the small half bath downstairs I had both dogs and at least one cat crowding in to make sure I wasn’t stepping into some Star Trek transporter and disappearing again without them. Sleeping at night was more like a contortionist’s act. Trooper took up half of the bed to my side, Tink was on the covers between my legs, Ebony and Mandy each took a corner at the end of the bed, and Oreo demanded that we “spoon.” I woke up stiff and sore but knowing without a doubt that I was loved.

The second week after my return though, I began to sense a change in Tink. She was suddenly sleeping later, not greeting me at the door, reluctant to eat, and whenever I held her and talked to her, I just got a sense of being sick and tired of being sick and tired. I was still jet lagged a week after the trip since I had been up almost 48 hours for the return flight and then immediately jumped back into work the day after I returned. I wasn’t sure if it was my own exhaustion I was sensing, or Tink’s. One night she was already on the bed while

I finished getting ready and as I walked into the bedroom I caught her off guard - with her “mask” off. She was leaning against the footboard of the bed, shaking uncontrollably, and her face was pulled so far back in a grimace of pain that she barely had a wrinkle over her nose. I was shocked and immediately asked her what was wrong. Just as quickly, she put the mask back on. Her face relaxed back to normal, and she weakly wagged her tail and laid down for me to rub her belly and give her a massage as if she was totally fine. But I had seen her face and I knew that the time had come for me to make the most humane decision I could for her. I knew I never wanted to see so much pain on her face again.

I had told her since the beginning of the year when she first started having more pain that as soon as she let me know she wasn’t having fun anymore, I would take her to the vet and we would make sure she wasn’t in pain any more. I had hoped—like all pet lovers do—that I would never have to make that decision. It wasn’t the first time I had made it for a beloved pet in pain, but that still didn’t make it any easier. I knew then that the sense of being sick and tired of being sick and tired wasn’t my own exhaustion, but it was Tink trying to tell me that it was time. She wasn’t having fun anymore.

The next morning as I took her out before I went to work I noticed that her urine was orange and thought briefly that perhaps it was just another bladder infection that was making her uncomfortable. I could just make an appointment with the vet and get her on another round of antibiotics. But it would have been the third time in six months and I knew that it was just delaying the inevitable. I called the vet once I got to work and made an appointment for that afternoon. Then I called the animal intuitive that had helped me with Trooper.

I had to be sure. I had to know that I was doing the right thing and I wasn’t acting on impulse. I knew in my heart that I wasn’t, and I knew it was time, but I still needed to hear it from Tink. I wasn’t able at that point to be emotionally detached enough to be objective. She communicated with Tink and relayed to me that if it could have been possible, Tink would have like to be able to stay with me forever because she loved me so much, but it was just so hard and she hurt so much. Tink told her to tell me that she would still be with me, watching over me, and that we would meet again.

When I got home to pick her up I told both her and Trooper where we were going and what was going to happen. I told her that she wouldn’t be in pain anymore and that she would be able to run and be happy. I took Trooper with us. I knew that he wouldn’t understand if I took her away and didn’t come back with her, that he would worry and pace the house like he did when she spent the night at the vet’s for tests. He needed to understand. He would need closure just like I needed confirmation.

Tink was happy about the car ride—as always. When we arrived at the office, we were put in one of the rooms to wait until the vet and technician were available. I sat on the floor while Tink ran around in circles and occasionally stopping to give me kisses. She was excited—as if she knew the pain was going to stop. I held her a few times and pet her, telling her she would be free of pain soon. Trooper stood over me, facing the door, as if he was protecting both of us.