Chicken Soup for the Dog Lover's Soul (28 page)

“When did he get sick?”

“He hasn’t been himself for quite a while. He hasn’t had much of an appetite. And he sleeps a lot more.”

“But this is the first time he hasn’t been at the door to meet me just like, well . . . always.”

“He’s made an effort to be up here every night lately because he loves you so much.”

“He’s going to get better, isn’t he?”

Mom avoided my eyes. “I took him to the vet today. The doctor gave me some medicine to keep him comfortable, but nothing else can be done.”

I couldn’t breathe. A fist grabbed my heart, squeezing tightly. “You . . . you mean he’s . . . going to die?”

“While you were growing up, honey, he was growing old.”

I could have cried. But when you’re almost twenty . . . well . . .

The phone rang. “Hi.” It was my girlfriend Cathy. “What time do you want me to pick you up for the movie?”

“Ivan is sick.”

“Ivan? Who’s Ivan?”

“Ivan. My dog.”

“Oh. I haven’t heard you mention him, have I? Anyway, I’m sorry, but what time shall I pick you up?”

“Well, Cath, I . . . I don’t think I can go. I want to stay home with Ivan.”

“What? Lori, we’ve been waiting weeks for this movie to open, and now you’re not going on account of a dog?”

“Ivan isn’t just any dog, Cath. He’s my friend, once-upon-a-time playmate, and—”

“Okay, Lori, I get your drift.” I could tell by her voice how upset she was. “Are you going or not?”

“No. I’m staying home with Ivan.”

The phone went dead in my hand. Some people just didn’t understand.

As I went downstairs, I thought about what Cathy had said. “Who’s Ivan?” Had I really never mentioned him? It wasn’t that long ago that we went everywhere together. In the last few years, though, my interests had changed. Still, my love for him hadn’t. Only how would he know that if I didn’t take the time to show him? Ivan seemed happy, so I hadn’t thought that much about it.

Ivan’s tail wagged weakly as I sat down beside his bed. He tried to raise his head, but I leaned closer so hewouldn’t have to, my hand caressing his brown body. “How’s my buddy? Not too great, my friend?”

His tail flopped again, his black eyes gazing into mine.
Where have you been?
they seemed to say.
I’ve been waiting
for you.

Tears filled my eyes as I stroked his back. What had Mom said? I’d grown up while Ivan had grown old. Although I always petted him in passing, I couldn’t remember when we’d last done anything together.

I shifted my position and Ivan tried to get up. “No, no,” I whispered. “I’m not leaving you. We have a little catching up to do.” He settled down again, nuzzling my leg.

“Remember when you were a puppy, Ivan, and how on Mother’s Day you brought home a deadmouse and placed it at Mom’s feet? Remember how she screamed? You never brought her another one.” He was trying to watch me, but he was getting sleepy.

“And remember the time we all went camping and you flushed out that black-and-white kitty that turned out to be a skunk?”

His eyes were closed, but his tail wagged and his feet moved. Maybe he was remembering in his sleep.

Mom tiptoed in with a sleeping bag. “I thought you’d want to spend the night with him.”

I nodded. It was like old times—our sleeping side by side—my arm around him.

His tongue lickingmy earwokeme up the nextmorning. I hugged him and his tail waved like a feeble flag in the wind. Work didn’t seemimportant, but I knewI’d better go.

“Ivan will be waiting for you when you get home,”Mom assured me.

And he was—right at the front door.

“I found him trying to climb the stairs to get up here to meet you,” Mom said. “I don’t know how he made it as far as he did. I carried him the rest of the way.”

“It’s like the old days, buddy,” I scooped him into my arms and hugged him to my heart. I carried him downstairs and held him until he fell asleep.

He died that night in my arms. I told him over and over what an important part he’d played in my life. And in the end, we were together . . . just like always.

Lorena O’Connor

A Smile from Phoebe

O
ld dogs, like old shoes, are comfortable. They
might be a bit out of shape and a little worn
around the edges, but they fit well.

Bonnie Wilcox

About to begin my first teaching job, I moved out to Colorado completely alone, ready to reinvent myself in a new place. At the school where I was teaching, I soon met warm, friendly people with similar interests, but I found myself returning to my empty apartment each night with a keen sense that something was missing. Another teacher suggested that I get a pet—an older dog who would not need to be trained and would be ready to be a devoted companion. I scheduled a visit to a local animal shelter, eagerly picturing how wonderful life would be with a loving face to greet me every night.

The shelter was large and loud. I briskly walked up and down the aisles, stopping in front of one of the last kennels. I felt my throat squeeze tight with emotion when I saw her staring up at me from the cement floor: a beagle with a completely white face and a tail running on a motor. Her shiny eyes met mine as her head tilted back at an angle that caused her ears to hang straight out on either side. When I smiled at her, it sent her into a foot-to-foot shuffle. That was all it took. In no time the paperwork was completed and I was on my way home with an eleven-year-old beagle with no name.

Phoebe, a name I had never thought much about, seemed to fit the old girl all too well. My new friend nestled herself comfortably into my life. Often I would return home stressed by my work as a first-year teacher, but Phoebe knew how to change my mood instantly. She would stretch her neck backward and balance her head just so, until her ears stretched out perfectly on both sides of her white face. My little old beagle would suddenly become a plane ready for takeoff, and I would smile and forget my bad day.

In the light of the happiness that was spilling out of this eleven-year-old dog who had been bounced from home to home, my own small annoyances faded away. I resolved that it was only right for me to spoil her to the best of my ability. Phoebe was no stranger to the occasional table scrap, and her dog bed seemed to go empty when she realized mine was bigger and warmer. We were a perfect pair, each finding exactly what we needed in the other.

Our new life together was blessed in so many ways, but soon I began to notice that Phoebe was struggling to climb stairs and to run. Our visit to the vet brought news that twisted my stomach: Phoebe had severe arthritis in her spine that could not be reversed. The vet consoled me, and we discussed a plan to keep Phoebe comfortable and in as little pain as possible. On the ride home, Phoebe sat in the front of the car with me, a look of intense concern on her face as she watched me fight back the tears.

I resolved to make the best of the time Phoebe had left. We walked to her favorite park every day, and I massaged her ears whenever she pulled on my hand with her paw. I also took many pictures of her around our home and at her favorite places, though I never managed to capture her perfectly balanced “ready-for-takeoff” ears on film.

Unfortunately, none of this guaranteed me more time with her.

One fresh spring afternoon I returned from work, excited to take Phoebe to the park. We couldn’t even make it down the stairs. I called the vet, who asked me if she was still having more good days than bad. Once off the phone, I looked into Phoebe’s eyes as if to ask her. Our eyes locked and the answer was clear.

I took the following day off from work and spent that time petting Phoebe. I felt numb during the trip to the vet. As the vet prepared to put Phoebe down, I whispered all the thanks I had into my dog’s ears. I told her how much joy she had given me. She sighed in relief just moments before her head became a weight on my lap. As a look of peace came over her, an emptiness swelled inside me.

Every day brought new reminders of Phoebe’s absence. Whether it was a hidden bone or a paw print on the kitchen floor, it left me helpless with grief and in need of comfort. I tried to focus on how peaceful she had looked, but I still agonized over whether I had made the right decision.

I found solace when I started making a collage of photos of Phoebe. To complete my project, I picked up the photos from the last roll of film that I had taken of her. When I opened the envelope, the picture on top of the stack made the corners of my mouth twitch. It was a terrific shot of a white-faced beagle with her head tipped back, ears hanging to the sides in perfect symmetry. It was my Phoebe, asking me to smile.

Beth McCrea

Legacy of Love

The best thing about being a veterinarian is helping welcome new puppies and kittens to a family. The absolute hardest thing is helping someone say good-bye to a family member. Because pets’ biological clocks tick faster than ours, few pets live past their teens. Over a career, a veterinarian can be involved with tens of thousands of pets dying. It has no parallel in any other profession—second place is not even close.

In order to cope with the high number of deaths and the difficulties in dealing with grieving clients, veterinarians sometimes find their hearts hardened to death, their souls callused against yet another tearful good-bye. Although surveys show that the public appreciates the visible care, compassion and concern that veterinarians express, the fact remains that, as a veterinarian, you can become numb to saying good-bye to a pet or helping ease its passage. Until it’s
your
pet.

I was a senior in veterinary school when we got a spunky, salt-and-pepper miniature schnauzer. My wife, Teresa, named him Bodé (pronounced
bo-day
) after a favorite college professor of hers. Bodé became our first child. We called Bodé our son, and ourselves his mom and dad, another example of our generation’s philosophy that “pets are family.”

We spoiled Bodé rotten. He ate with us in the kitchen, munched on the best pet foods, rode with us in the car (yapping his way around town like a canine siren), sat with us on the couch to watch TV at night, slept in our bed and went on vacation with us. He wore handmade sweaters, received the hot-oil treatment at the groomer’s and got the very best medical care available. We did anything and everything to pamper our beloved first child.

Sadly, because of a very weak immune system, Bodé had medical problems—a lot of them. First, he got a severe case of pancreatitis and went blind. Then, he developed incurable, greasy seborrhea that left his skin oily and smelly. Over time, his teeth went bad, which caused his breath to smell horrible; he lost his hearing and he limped on a bad hip joint. Despite his bad breath, smelly skin and the need to be lifted on and off the bed, he
never
missed a single night sleeping in our bed.

On December 10, 1985, our “second” child was born: our first daughter, a beautiful two-legged, blond-haired girl named Mikkel. When we brought Mikkel home, we, like a lot of first-time parents, were worried about what would happen between Bodé and our baby. Would Bodé be jealous of the lost attention and try to bite Mikkel?

As Teresa sat with Mikkel on the couch, the two sets of grandparents and I watching intently, Bodé walked over to check out this wrinkled, weird-looking alien with a baby-bird-like tuft of hair on her head. Bodé opened his mouth and made a sudden movement toward Mikkel. I sprang to my feet. But Bodé wasn’t going to bite the baby! Instead, he started licking her, giving Mikkel a canine version of a sponge bath. Forget worries about disease transmission, we were delighted a powerful affection-connection had been born.

Almost exactly a year later, close to Mikkel’s first birthday, Bodé was stricken with a fatal condition called autoimmune hemolytic anemia. Simply put, Bodé’s red blood cells were being destroyed by the thousands as his immune system attacked the very thing that kept life-sustaining oxygen flowing to every cell in his body.

Refusing to accept the finality of this diagnosis and with a dogged determination to save Bodé, I ran tests, called specialists at various veterinary schools, consulted with other veterinarians with whom I worked, pored over textbooks, ran more tests. Sadly, all roads led to a dead end.

I remember delivering the news to Teresa. She sobbed as she held Bodé in her arms, gently rocking his body, which was becoming increasingly lifeless due to the lack of oxygen. She couldn’t imagine life without Bodé. Neither could I.

She looked to me for guidance in making the right decision, and suddenly it hit me. I wasn’t counseling another client about options; I wasn’t preparing for the passing of another precious pet; I wasn’t gearing up for my standard lectures on what happens when a pet is euthanized or what the options are for memorial services and remains. This wasn’t another pet; this was our child, the greatest dog in the world.

Although the weight of that realization crushed my soul, it also succeeded in breaking through the heavy callus around my heart, a barrier built up from participating in thousands of pet passings. I began to cry—releasing not only the tears of a grieving family member, but also tears that had been subdued and submerged as I’d struggled for years with the sadness of saying good-bye to hundreds, thousands of my clients’ and friends’ family members and beloved pets. My heart was reawakening even as my four-legged child was slipping away.