An encomium of sorts

Remember I said something last post about it being a rough year? Add another woe:

My husband woke me up Monday morning because our dog was acting weird. He couldn't stand up.  He had thrown up the night before, so I figured he ate something bad and was weak from being sick all night. Sure enough, I found two piles of vomited leaves in the yard.  He wasn't tempted by his food or water, but I wasn't very concerned. Took the kids to school, came home to a still lethargic dog, so I decided to call the vet, grumbling to myself about having to spend money to have his stomach pumped, or worse, to have some piece of trash surgically removed.

The vet was able to see him within an hour, so I headed over with my oldest son. Fortunately, the high school had the day off school, so he could lift the dog in and out of the car. The vet wasn't happy with the dog's vitals, and came in with a write-up of the cost of x-rays, blood tests and iv options. We started with the x-rays, which didn't reveal any trash in the dog's gut, but did show either a twisted stomach or a tumor. After a dose of painkiller and iv fluids, we were sent to the surgical vet's office for more imaging and potential surgery.

This place is like the elite private hospital for pets. It has on staff endocrinologists, urologists, surgeons, reproductive health specialists, oncologists, etc. Very posh. I feared for my checkbook, but I was also worried about our dog, and more about our kids being worried about our dog if I didn't do something to take care of him. After a long wait, we were finally invited in for a consult with the vet. She right away launched in to options: another diagnostic x-ray and ultrasound scan and some blood tests. If the condition were twisted stomach, it could be turned surgically, and we could look for a recovery in about 3 weeks and another year or two of life. If it were a tumor, she could do surgery but life expectancy would only be 3-6 months.

Then her facial expression changed. "But I need to be honest with you," she said. The diagnostic imaging would be about $800, and either surgery would be about $4000, plus iv's, painkillers, and follow-up care. My stomach plummeted. "And he's in rough condition right now," she continued. "His vitals are very weak, and there's no guarantee the surgery would be successful."

Our dog was born on December 23, 2002. The older kids remember seeing him born on a cold, wintry night in my parents' garage. For a dog, he's had a long, full life. I had talked myself into being willing to spend a thousand or more for a surgery for the dog, but $4000 was out of the question. I was thankful that the vet was frank about what we were looking at.  My fifteen-year-old son right away started sniffling, knowing what we were going to have to do.

I called my husband, and then went to pick the other kids up at school to take them back to the vet's to say good-bye. There was wailing and gnashing of teeth in the car after I told them where we were going. They thought they were headed to the dentist's after school.  I have to commend the vet hospital staff for their tactful treatment of our carload of tearful kids trooping in. We were given space in the little courtyard where a vet tech wheeled the dog out on a gurney. He was awake, but woeful looking. Perhaps having the kids say goodbye was harder than not. More tears, and then my husband took them home, while I stayed for his final shot and to take his body home to bury.  The vet told me she had taken a peek with the ultrasound and found out that it was a tumor on his liver that was bleeding. It crossed my mind that she told me this for consolation, but she probably didn't want to put down a dog she might have been able to save either.

My husband dug a heart-shaped grave on the side of the house, and we had a little burial ceremony after dark. The older kids want to dig up Bosco's bones when we move from California and take them back to my parents' farm to bury him where he was born and where he was always so happy. A bit morbid, but we'll probably do it.

I've always sort of prided myself about being realistic about pets. I love animals - we've had our share of rodents, fish and birds - but I try not to anthropomorphize them. But it was hard to say no to surgery for the dog, especially thinking that maybe something could have been done.  The kids didn't bring up the difference between euthanizing a pet and a person, and I'm pretty sure my older kids recognize the difference, but my nine-year-old was adamant in saying, "I don't care what anybody says, I think animals do have souls that go to Heaven." And in a way I kind of agreed with him, as I said, "Perhaps they do have an animal soul. God created them; he just didn't create them His image, like us." Animals do have unique personalities, even the rodents.  My husband started to head on a discussion about how animals were created for our use, but it wasn't the time for a debate about the theology of animals and whether or not pets are useful.

While I was sitting in the waiting room at the vet's, I had observed the variety of pet owners: a guy in an electric wheelchair waiting for a guide animal. A middle aged lady with designer sunglasses and purse whose golden retriever was in for chemotherapy. An older woman with a fancy black poodle dressed up in a diamond collar and a leopard print halter that needed stomach surgery.  She was talking to the dog as if to a baby, just in the way you might stereotype a wealthy older woman and her fancy-schmanzy pet.  But as the wait went on, I felt genuinely sorry for her.  She didn't seem to have much else in life to keep her busy, since she told the vet tech who apologized for the wait that she didn't mind; she liked the extra time with her sweet baby and she'd wait all day.  Perhaps some people might debate the merit of spending thousands on pets when there are starving people in the world, but there are also people starving for affection.

Our dog was not a working animal, but he was useful for cleaning up messes on the floor, for providing an excuse to exercise, for teaching our kids about responsibility and caring for others, for offering a warm, sloppy welcome when coming home, for the appearance of being a guard dog, even if he had no antipathy toward any stranger, for all those reasons in physio-kinesiology studies of well-being that companion animals provide.  It has seemed quiet around here the past few days, and when a yogurt or milk has spilled, I almost call for him.  I'm in no hurry to get another dog with a baby on the way - the puppy question was raised last night, 3 days postmortem - but I won't say never.

Bosco, a friend to boys, with his litter mates. My oldest talked his grandpa into letting us have the only yellow puppy, because he wouldn't have been a good hunter. And he wasn't; he never did really like to fetch. 

But he all his life liked socks ...

and walks ... 

and muddy ditches ... 

and sniffing at other dogs (his half-sisters here) . . . 

He was a pretty handsome lab.

Sad to say goodbye.