Lazy Sunday

At least I woke up laughing.

Otis was curled up next to me, his head near my stomach. I looked over and noticed Zoe in a mirror position, with her head on Tim’s stomach. She stretched out to put a paw over his leg to show even more ownership. Tim rolled over but this didn’t budge Zoe. She had her human body pillow and she wasn’t moving. This amused me greatly, because Tim goes to great lengths to build a pillow fortress so this doesn’t happen. He rolls around a lot in his sleep and likes to move unencumbered by dogs, which is how they both end up on my side most of the time. 

Zoe is really chatty today. She’s also cranky. I gave her the orange treat ball, but she growled at Otis more fiercely than normal when he tried to get in on the fun. She would have no idea how to play with that toy if it hadn’t been for him, though– she’d still be using it as a chew toy instead of rolling it around to dislodge the treats. 

I read one of the saddest things ever: The Sports Guy on ESPN lost one of his dogs to lymphoma. If you want a good cry, go here. If you don’t, I’d highly suggest not clicking through. I was fine during the one-year anniversary of Abby’s passing, but reading this was like tearing the wound open again. He’s an excellent writer and this is a beautiful tribute to his dog.

It’s finally above freezing so we took the dogs for an extended walk yesterday. We’ve been giving Otis a green bone to hold in his mouth while he walks so he doesn’t chew on his leash.  We were wondering if this would also help when he encountered other dogs. We met two Chihuahuas as well as a German Shepherd. He dropped the toy the minute he saw the two little dogs, and he refused to take it back, chewing on his collar and leash instead. He did slightly better with the larger dog (which is weird, because you would think he would view it as more of a threat). He kept the toy in his mouth so there was no barking or lunging, but he still shook his head violently so I could tell he was upset. I’m hoping now that the weather is warmer, we can work with him more, giving him treats as an incentive to behave. 

I’m looking forward to getting out in the fresh air again. It’s another warm and sunny day, but it’s supposed to get cold again. It will be up and down for the next several weeks, but at least we’ll get some warmth mixed in with the cold (I hope).

You’ve Got to Hide Your Love Away

We received a card in the mail from our veterinary clinic today. It contained some really nice notes from the staff. Abby loved everyone there, and they loved her.

Of course, the card made us cry. I am touched by other people’s reactions and kind words, and that sets off my tear ducts more than anything.

Tim got a phone call at about 6:00. It was from the veterinary clinic, letting us know they had her ashes.

I thought the bill would be more expensive, but it was less than $300. I didn’t know what to expect, really.

The box is less than a foot long. It seems both too large and too small at the same time. I feel awkward handling it. I am respectful of its contents, but it doesn’t seem like she’s in there.

We placed it in a kitchen cupboard where we used to keep her treats. I think she’d like that. When it gets warmer, we’ll take the ashes outside in the yard and in the woods, the places she loved.

The clinic also gave us a mold of her paw print, which I thought was incredibly thoughtful and sweet. It has her paw in the middle, with hearts imprinted all around it, along with her name on the left side. We baked it in the oven, in the same Pyrex dish I used for the enchiladas the night before she let us know it was time to go.

One Week

I hate grocery shopping. With a purple, screaming, throbbing passion.

People abandon all common sense when they enter the store. They take up entire aisles debating what kind of bread to buy, while people with more important things to do (even if it’s, say, lounging on the couch) wait behind them in grocery purgatory.

So I was already cranky when I came home. And I didn’t have an adorable little dog wagging to greet me, waiting to investigate all the fun things in the brown paper bags. That always made it a little more tolerable. Sure, most of it was not-for-puppy food,  but occasionally there would be a box of biscuits or bag of treats.

I feel like I’m missing a limb. We’re definitely less emotional about her absence, but we still ache.

I feel weightless, like I’m a kite about to float away with nothing to hold me to the ground. Which is weird, because as a friend of mine would say, I’ve been eating my feelings. The first two days I couldn’t eat anything, but I’ve been overcompensating since then.

I only drank one night, though, and not to excess. I’m afraid of drinking too much and feeling even worse the next day. I’m trying to be on as much of an even keel as possible.

I hope I’m not becoming too self-absorbed. What I’d like to do, when I’m up to it, is share more memories of what made her so special. I think I’ve been suppressing some of the thoughts because it hurts when they’re too close to the surface. But I want to honor her in some way.

Trying to Make my Way Home

The first time I do things without her is the hardest. The second time, it gets slightly easier.

It’s the smallest of things, too. For example, this morning, I made lunch to bring with me. (Yesterday I had planned to go out.) I had to take a moment because I realized I wouldn’t be coming home for lunch to be with her, and that I wouldn’t be preparing treats to give to her before I left. Mornings are the hardest. I’m not a morning person anyway. I try to cope with it by not fully waking up, but I have to leave the house at some point, and it helps to be conscious.

Mornings are hardest for Tim, too. He was fine until he came back upstairs after his shower, and he didn’t have a dog to feed anymore. He was the one who got up first, so he gave her breakfast and let her outside.

I drove  to my usual work location today. I drove there on Tuesday to get my laptop and bring it home. The second time wasn’t as difficult, although I took a different way home. When traffic gets backed up out of St. Paul on 35E, I take side streets. Our vet’s office is located on one of these streets. I took a deep breath as I drove by, and surprisingly, I didn’t get choked up.

We’re able to reminisce about the good things and laugh a little more easily. We talked about the way she would sniff new things when we brought them home, and how she would try to be helpful when Tim was setting up electronics in the living room.

I still have a dull ache, but the raw wound is starting to heal over.

Better Days

We’re both on more of an even keel today. We both went to work for the entire day. People have been really supportive, which we appreciate. Our coworkers got us cards containing some very thoughtful and sweet things. I didn’t talk about it too much, but it’s easier than I had expected.

I teared up a little as I drove away from the house, because my little brown dog wasn’t looking out the window to see me off. I miss talking to her. I didn’t realize how much I would speak to her throughout the day. Need to go outside one more time? Would you like some chicken in your saucer? Good girl. Have a good day, my canine friend. I’ll miss you.

I missed her even when I saw her on a daily basis.

I held it together at work, even when I was thanking my boss profusely for letting me have a flexible schedule and allowing me to work at home. Because of that, I was able to spend extra time with her over the last several months. I’ll always appreciate and cherish that.

I worked in our other office in the west metro. I choked up on the way home as I drove on 694 east, remembering that this was the route I first drove her home. I picked her up in Osseo. I had the kennel in the back seat of the car, and I talked to her the whole way home to reassure her. Sarah McLachlan’s “Building a Mystery” played on the radio, and I pondered the little mystery in the back seat. She didn’t whimper at all during the ride. She laid on a thin blanket in the kennel, and she occasionally stood up and peered through the sides to see what was going on. At every stoplight, I turned to make sure she was okay and held my hands against the openings in the kennel so she knew someone was there.

I loved taking her for rides, looking in the rearview mirror and seeing her panting, smiling face. Or opening the windows so she could poke her head out. I accidentally rear-ended someone once because I was admiring her cuteness. Luckily, we were going slowly, there was no damage to either car, and the man in the other car was incredibly understanding and nice. It also probably helped that I was in good shape and wearing a tank top, and had an adorable big dog in the back seat.

Lately It’s So Quiet

It’s terribly quiet in the house.

I woke up, wishing I could hear the flop of her ears as she shook her head, and the click of her claws on the hardwood floors as she went to the door, the signal for us to get out of bed and let her outside.

I miss the sounds of her getting a drink of water in the middle of the night, the sound of her lapping the water with her tongue and the last few drops hitting the linoleum floor.

I keep thinking that we’ve left her at the vet for chemo and we’ll be picking her up later today, or that she’s outside and I need to let her in.

I went to work and picked up my laptop so I could do some work at home. I keep wanting to go into the living room to check on her, to see if she needs to go outside, to rub her head.

I keep looking at her blanket, expecting to see her there. Or I’ll be on the couch and I’ll think she’s on the floor hiding on the other side of the ottoman.

I took pictures of her paw prints on the deck. Tim doesn’t want it to snow because it will cover them up.

I’m doing somewhat better than I was yesterday, but it’s still touch and go. One minute I’ll be fine, and the next I’ll be a fountain. I’ve been making the Renee Zellweger face, with her scrunched up mouth, but much puffier eyes.

I feel tired, lonely, sad, empty, numb, helpless.

I run over the last few days, months, years in my mind thinking of more time I could have spent with her or things I could have done differently.

I play mental games with myself, thinking “the last time I listened to this song, she was alive,” or “the last time I unloaded the dishwasher, she was here.” Tim brought home groceries, and I cried as I unloaded them, because my little four-legged helper wasn’t waiting around the corner to see what was in the bags.

I kept looking at the enchiladas in the fridge, unable to eat them because they would taste like tears. Tim helped me out with that, thank god.

I don’t have the heart to put away her things just yet. Like Ned Flanders, I don’t want to smooth out the creases she left in the blanket. The blanket still carries some of her scent. We both admitted to each other that we’ve smelled it.

I want to be excited about our upcoming Vegas trip. I’m looking forward to going, but coming back is going to be difficult. There were times when the only thing I looked forward to on our return was seeing her.

Friends and family have been tremendously kind– calling, sending e-mails with words of encouragement. Several people have said that the first week is the worst.

We’re coping. But I miss her. We both do.

I Don’t Know How to Say Goodbye to You

For the last week, she’s been mostly lethargic. She would have a couple days where it appeared she was bouncing back, and then the next day she’d sleep almost all the time.

On Saturday morning, I cleaned the house while Tim ran some errands. Abby barely moved, only getting up to switch positions on her blanket on the floor.

Saturday evening, I made chicken enchiladas. She hovered around the counter, begging me to drop something. She’d been only eating the canned ID in her bowl and not the dry kibble, so she was probably hungry. She caught a couple stray pieces of shredded cheese.

On Sunday, I went to the Mall of America to exchange something. Even though I only go there once or twice a year, I felt a need to go home as soon as possible and didn’t stay long.

At around 2:30, Abby went to the window in our living room. I was watching TV. (I think it was that horrible Lifetime movie with Lynda Carter– the one where her daughter has anorexia, and Lynda asks her for a tampon at one point. An awkward moment in any mother-daughter relationship.)

I heard a thud. She was lying on her back between the window and the back of the couch, and she couldn’t get up. I helped her roll over, and she sat facing away from me, her head bowed. Tim came upstairs to help. He moved the couch so she could go forward, but she didn’t budge. He carried her out into the living room where she sat uncomfortably. Her front legs kept sliding out, but instead of lying down she shifted back to a more upright sitting position, until she slit down a few seconds later. Her left front paw kept turning inward as she was sliding. Finally, Tim took her front paws and helped her to lie down on her side. Looking back, I feel that this was the moment she gave up.

She stayed in that position for hours. Later, we found out that she couldn’t get up without help. After about 5 hours, we thought she should try to go outside or eat or drink some water or something. Her food had sat in the kitchen untouched, the canned ID slowly hardening. Tim brought over a piece of canned ID on one of her toys. She lifted her head slightly, sniffed at the food briefly, sighed, and rested her head on the floor again. She did manage to eat a couple pieces of chicken treats, but that was it.

We tried to coax her to get up, but she wasn’t having any of it. We lifted her to her feet. Tim carried her outside, down the stairs of the deck, and into the yard. She urinated and slowly walked back into the house. She went over to the couch and sat. We brought her water, but she wasn’t interested. She sat uncomfortably again, with her wobbly front legs sliding. Tim eased her back onto her side so she could lie down.

I’m not sure how much rest she was actually getting. I kept reaching over to touch her, because I didn’t know how much longer she’d be there. Sometimes her eyes were rolled back into her head as if she were sleeping, and sometimes they would be partially open, half-awake.

Her breathing was rapid. I looked on a couple websites and found that normal dog breathing is 15-30 breaths per minute (some sites say 15-20). Her rate was 45-60 breaths per minute. I didn’t even attempt to count her heart rate, but it was fast.

Her paws were cold. She wasn’t getting much circulation. She didn’t even move when I massaged her legs. Her paws, normally pink, were white.

This was about the time we had The Talk.

We knew that we were going to take her into the vet’s office the next day no matter what. The question was, what were we going to ask them to do? It was pretty obvious that it was time, even though I couldn’t completely admit that to myself. Last week I had been hoping that she’d make it the next four months to her eleventh birthday (“this one goes to eleven”), but it was not to be. We both broke down, knowing that it was the right thing to do, but it was so hard. Yet it was hard just watching her lie still on the floor, unable to get up or down on her own. It was time.

We got her up to go outside once more before we went to bed, and this time she took a few sips of water after we brought her water bowl into the living room. Still no interest in food, or anything other than resting.

I decided to sleep on the couch near her. We’d been nap buddies from day one, so it seemed fitting.

I woke up several times during the night, just to make sure she was okay. She stirred a couple times. If she kicked her back legs several times in a row, I knew that she wanted to get up.

I got Tim to help me the first time. She refused the water that we offered her. She spun around twice, then Tim helped her to the floor. I had the feeling that she wanted to have her back against the couch and she wanted to turn around once more before lying down. A few minutes later, when she kicked her legs again, I helped her up. She drank some water. She then turned around in the opposite direction, and slowly lowered herself down without my help. I wanted to at least give her that opportunity to do something for herself.

I kept repositioning myself so I could hear her breathing. I kept reaching down to pet her, to comfort her and myself.

Tim woke up at around 6:00 a.m. and took her outside. She urinated, but still didn’t eat. I woke up around 8:00. Tim had just called the vet and made an appointment for 12:20. We had just over 4 hours left.

I managed to find the energy to shower. Food was not appealing, but I made myself have some toast and hot chocolate, my usual morning breakfast, just for some semblance of normalcy.

Once during the morning, after we helped her to her feet, Abby went into the kitchen on her own and drank from her water bowl. For a second, I harbored a brief hope that this might not be the end, but I remembered that she still couldn’t get up on her own.

When she was on the floor again, I offered her a couple pieces of chicken from the enchiladas I’d been making on Saturday. She slowly took a couple pieces. I offered her more, but she had had enough.

To pass the time, we watched bad ’80s music videos (Lionel Richie’s “You Are”– oh, the choreography. “Dancin’ in the Street”– check your dignity at the door. Tesla “Love Song,” Quiet Riot’s “Cum on Feel the Noize,” Whitesnake’s “Is This Love”) At the end of The Price Is Right, I broke down when Drew Carey said “help control the pet population.”

We watched the news for a bit, and then it was time. Tim warmed up the car. I put on my coat, hat, and gloves.

She was resting with her back against the couch, with her face near her toy box. Her jowls were touching one of her red saucers and the top of her head was touching her white knotted rope.

We told Abby that we were going to go for a ride in the car, to see her friends at the puppy hotel. We were going on an adventure for the last time. She lifted her head and her eyes widened, but her tail did not wag.

God, it’s hard to type and cry.

Tim and I put on her collar and leash, and broke down at the finality of what we were about to do. We’d both been touch and go all morning. I was grateful that he drove. I don’t know how he managed to do it.

I sat in the back seat with her. She was clearly not enjoying the ride, something she once loved. She stood in the back seat and I held her head against my chest with my left hand and held her body with my right. I gave her a lot of kisses on her head and tried to soothe her. She sank down onto the seat and buried her head in the blanket next to my right thigh. This was not fun for her.

When we turned the corner by the vet’s office, she perked up. Her head lifted and her eyes grew wide.

Tim lifted her out of the car and we ambled up the hill from the parking lot to the front door. She was moving ever so slowly. Her eyes were glazed and she was panting. This is not how I want to remember her.

We were ushered into a room right away by Joan, one of the vet techs. She said that she’d just been through a similar experience with one of her big dogs. She said that they usually know when it’s about to get really cold, or when it’s about to snow. Hers went before a huge snowstorm. It’s supposed to be ridiculously cold over the next week, so I don’t blame Abby for getting out while she can.

Joan said that she was going to insert a catheter in Abby’s leg, and then our vet Dr. Jennrich was going to come in and explain things. She said that we were doing the right thing, and that she really enjoyed working with us and Abby. We thanked her profusely.

Joan had a binder with cremation urns. She showed us a couple display urns, pewter with paw prints. We hadn’t discussed it, but Tim and I had the same idea– we wanted her ashes, so we could spread them in the yard and in the woods where she used to go for walks. Rather than an urn or display box, we decided to get a plain cardboard box we could take with us to scatter her ashes in the spring. It would be too painful to look on a shelf or a mantle and know what was there.

Joan and Jamie, another vet tech, came back in to insert the catheter in her left front leg. Jamie held Abby up while Joan found the vein. They both praised Abby for being such a brave dog and a good girl. Jamie wrapped Abby’s leg in dark green tape, telling her it was her color.

They left, and Dr. Jennrich came in and told us we’d had a good run. He really enjoyed Abby as a patient. She’d always been somewhat defensive with us in the room, but she barely moved this time. For previous treatments, once he took her in back, she was fine. She just liked to protect us.

He said that it was the right time, and it was good that she let us know.

He said that he was going to inject her with barbiturates, enough for a 120-pound dog, a dog almost twice her size. She was going to become tense, and then relax. He said that her muscles might twitch a little, and she might lose control of her bowels. Her eyes would remain open. He asked if we had any questions, and we said no. We were as ready as we were going to be.
Abby was lying on her left side. We sat on the floor, near her back, holding her head and stroking her neck. Dr. Jennrich was on the other side of her, near her feet. I had brought one of her red saucers just so she’d have a toy to touch.

The vet inserted the needle into the catheter and slowly pressed down on the plunger. She tensed up, just as he said she would, then she relaxed. We stroked her neck and ears and head the whole time, telling her that we loved her and that she was a good girl. Her right front paw was draped over her red saucer. She looked ahead, past Tim and me and the room.

The vet waited a few minutes, and then checked her heart rate. There was none.

The muscles above her right leg twitched a couple times, then she was still. The vet checked her heart rate again, and felt nothing beat.

We sat there for a few minutes, reminiscing and having our own mini-wake. Dr. Jennrich told us how much he enjoyed working with us and with her, and how she was such a good dog. He said that he was more of a Golden Retriever guy, but he liked Boxers. He said that he’d had a couple experiences with males where they were aggressive, but for the most part, they were pretty mellow. He commented on the size of her folder and all she’d been through at the clinic. Tim shared the story of the thousand dollar toy, and how we had to have it surgically removed. Then there were the mast cells we’d had removed, her heart condition, an eye tumor, and finally the lymphoma.

He left us alone with her for a few minutes. We told her we loved her again, even though she couldn’t hear us. And then we left the room. I glanced back for a fraction of a second, not enough to take in the entire picture, but enough to see her lying there as if she were asleep, as she had been for the last few days.

We drove home, dreading the empty house. It was painfully, eerily quiet.

We spent the rest of the day in anguish, breaking out into sobs over the smallest thing every few minutes. Our tear ducts were endless. You would think they would run out at some point, but just when we thought we were done, we got upset again.
Everywhere we looked were reminders. Her blankets, her pillows, her toys, her food and water dishes. Scattered kibble on the kitchen floor from the last time she ate. I changed clothes, finding dog hair clinging to my black sweatshirt.

At some point, I took a nap, alone for the first time while Tim went downstairs. The nap was fine, but waking up was not. As I got up off the couch, I carefully placed my feet on the floor to step around a dog who was not there.

We spent the rest of the day in a blur of tears. We watched the news at 5, broadcasting the same segments from earlier in the day when she was still with us. We blankly stared at the TV for hours. The day seemed endless.

We tried to go to sleep early because we were both physically and emotionally exhausted. We woke up and watched more television, thankful that the Travel Channel was showing several episodes of No Reservations to distract us from our thoughts. I went to sleep and dreamed of Berlin.

Thanks, Dog

Perhaps in response to my worries, Abby decided to reassure me by getting me up at 3:30 this morning. She usually does one or two kinds of business and then ambles back in, allowing me to get back to sleep reasonably quickly. Today, she decided to investigate every single dropping she’d left over the past two weeks before coming inside. Look– here’s the one where I found some stray people food on the floor! Oh, and here’s the one where they gave me extra treats. Good times!

Honestly, though, it’s good to see her having any sort of energy or interest in activities other than sleeping. I know it seems trivial, but these days I worry that any little thing could become a trend and it could be the beginning of the end.

Oh Baby Don’t You Fret

I can’t help it. I’m a worrier.

Abby had treatment last Thursday. She had a lot of energy for about three days, and then she got pretty lethargic beginning on Sunday. For the last two days, she’s slept about 90% of the time.

When Tim came home for lunch, and when I came home from work, she didn’t jump up to greet us right away. It took her a few minutes to wake up and get moving.

She’s also showing an aversion to dry food. I don’t want to get into the habit of bribing her by placing wet food or treats in her bowl, but at the same time, I want her to eat. She still eats all the canned ID I can give her, so maybe I just need to give her a little more of that at each meal so she doesn’t lose too much weight.

Now I feel guilty for wanting her to sleep through the night.

Every Other Day of the Week Is Fine

Yesterday, Abby was scheduled for treatment at the vet. I put her regular collar and Gentle Leader on. I had to help her into the car. She could get her front paws up on the seat, but was having trouble with the back ones.

On the way to the vet, her head hung low and she looked sorrowful. I felt horrible. I worried that she was getting no joy out of rides in the car.

I also made the mistake of making her take the stairs up from the parking lot. The vet’s office is on a hill, and you can enter through a downstairs entrance and take the stairs up, or you can go outside on the sidewalk, which is on an incline. I parked next to the downstairs entrance and automatically opened the door. I thought I would try it to see how it went, but by the time Abby got to the top of the flight of stairs, her back legs gave out. It’s a good thing we keep our basement door closed at home, although I doubt she’d try to venture down there anyway.

When we arrived in the lobby, we found out that her medication hadn’t arrived yet, with the holiday week and all. It wasn’t a wasted trip, because we were low on dry food, canned food, and glucosamine, so I was able to get refills.

I took the Gentle Leader off for the ride home, but she still appeared to be sullen. Poor dog.

I was supposed to work at home that morning, but our internet connection had been down. I had a minor freakout when I got home, thinking that I would need to take some extra time off work the next day, and that I would need to take vacation time today. I had worked on New Year’s Eve and Christmas Eve to be able to carry over two extra days, and I didn’t want to use one of them up already. Plus, even though my boss has been extremely flexible, I didn’t want it to look like I was taking advantage of it and slacking.

The internet connection eventually came up and I was able to have an extremely productive day despite the slow start.

Today I called the vet’s office to make sure Abby’s medication was in, and I drove her there before work. I only used her regular collar, and it made all the difference in the world. Abby kept her head up the whole way to the vet, and she was showing interest in the cars around us. It was a much better trip than yesterday for both of us.

Just in case, I put Abby’s Gentle Leader in my work bag, which now smells like dog face.

She weighed in at 65 pounds. I left her there for the day, and Tim picked her up after work. We thought that would be best, rather than picking her up in the middle of the day and not being able to monitor her, because she’s always weak after her treatments. Sometimes it takes a couple days to kick in, but we wanted to be safe.

The vet called this afternoon. Her demeanor was good, and he said that her tail was wagging. Her blood work looked good. He mentioned that her white blood cells were a little high, and that could be due to the prednisone. I asked if we should go to administering it every other day, like we had before. He thought for a moment, and said, “yeah, let’s do that.” So I had to make a new chart, but that’s OK.