My Best Friends Have Hairy Legs (12 page)

The tech came in and took Tink out briefly to put a catheter in her leg. Trooper paced, and unlike his normal quiet behavior, whined a few times at the door, touching the knob with his nose. I told him she would be back, that it wasn’t time yet, and he would have a chance to say goodbye. When they brought her back in, she was even more excited, running in circles again. Trooper sniffed her leg and sniffed her face, then resumed a protective stance near me.

I picked Tink up and set her on a blanket on the table. Trooper paced around us as they inserted the medicine into her leg. As I held her and whispered over and over again “no more pain” in her ear, I felt her slump against my arm. I told her how much I loved her and how much we would miss her, but that we would be o.k. and we would see her again one day. Then… she was gone.

After the vet and tech left us alone for a while, I picked her up and sat on the floor with her so Trooper could see her. He hadn’t been able to really see her on the table. He came up to her and sniffed her face a few times, and then he laid down, his back to us and facing the wall. The Tink in my arms was not “his girl” anymore. She was gone and he knew it.

I had asked them to do a brief necropsy now that there wasn’t any more risk. Her gall bladder and pancreas were enlarged and “not happy” colors. One of them was supposed to be a bright green and instead looked like muddy algae. She didn’t have any gall bladder stones, but she did have four times as many bladder stones as we had seen in the past on x-rays and her bladder was extremely distended with indications of another bladder infection. There wasn’t any mass on or in her stomach, but the portion of her intestine that attached to the stomach has a sphincter muscle that allows food to pass in increments rather than all at once into the intestines. The muscle was inflamed and so tight that the vet couldn’t get her little finger into it. It should have relaxed when she died, but it didn’t. Whether or not this was causing her pain, we couldn’t know, but it was probably contributing to her throwing up undigested food occasionally. But when the vet went to look at her liver, barely touching it as she started the exam, her liver completely fell apart. It did not have the appearance of hepatitis or cirrhosis, and there weren’t any obvious indications of other diseases. Apparently just the pressure of all the other organs around it had been holding it together all this time.

I knew then that I had made the right decisions in refusing to do biopsies earlier in the year. She most likely would have died on the table if they had taken a biopsy of her liver. With all of her internal organs showing such unhappiness and abnormalities, there were numerous things that could have been causing her pain above and beyond just the arthritis and hip dysplasia. Yet Tink whined and cried only in March after her second acupuncture treatment. I had her for a little over six years; she had just turned seven when she died. She never complained. She never whined. She never gave up. She never quit. She was the strongest and bravest dog I’ve ever known. She simply knew how to love, and I believe that it was her love for us that kept her going all those years when she was in pain. It was her love for me that kept me going so many times when I felt unloved, unwanted and alone.

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12

Moving Forward

When Trooper and I returned home from the vet office, we were in a pretty sad state of mind. As we got out of the car, I saw that John was home after an extended TDY to the Middle East and Europe. It was one of the rare times that Ripkin didn’t stay with us and instead was in Tampa with John’s sister. On any other day, Trooper would have been thrilled to see John—even if he had seen him every day for a month he still showed the same excitement each time. This day, however, he was very subdued. He briefly wagged his tail, gave his hand a lick, then turned and walked away. It was almost as if he was saying “Hey, glad you’re home, but I just lost my best friend and I don’t want to talk about it right now because I’m really sad.” Words I said instead.

In the week between Tink’s death and Ripkin’s return from Tampa, Trooper and I spent a lot of time together. When I went to work, I took him to day care so that he wouldn’t be home alone. Several of the caregivers there commented on how subdued he seemed, and I spent more time talking to him in the evenings, telling him that Ripkin would be home soon and then he would have his “other” best friend there to comfort him. Finally Ripkin arrived and the two of them spend the days together, either at my house or once a week at day care with all their other friends.

Recently when I took both Trooper and Ripkin for a day of play at one of the local doggy day care facilities, Trooper showed one of the caregivers that he knows who his friends are. She had gone back to get three dogs, but only had two leads with her, so took Trooper and the other dog. As she started to walk towards the door leading to the lobby, Trooper pulled away from her and went back to the run where Ripkin was waiting and sat down outside the gate. He refused to budge until she traded the other dog for Ripkin. He wasn’t going to leave his best friend behind no matter what.

Trooper seems to have matured on a different level now. At four years old, he has physically reached his full growth potential, filling out in the chest this last year and reaching his full height. But I think that with the loss of Tink, it is as if he has suddenly “grown up”. When we sit watching TV in the evenings, he seems more thoughtful and will often lean into me, putting his head on my leg or shoulder. As if… he is comforting me.

There will be another pug in our future, of that I am sure. Trooper misses his girl, misses his “pillow,” and I miss her happy face when I come home. Once you are loved by a pug it is hard to not hear that snoring at night, and hard not to see that little curly tail wagging with joy at finding a dropped treat. We will find another little pug girl and she will also find us when the time is right. Soon I know we will be covered in pug snot and kisses. I have already picked out a name for her… Tián Xin—or Peaceful Heart in Chinese. It is a reflection of where our hearts are now.

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13

Lessons

Life’s lessons are almost always hard ones. You never really know if you pass the test until you find yourself facing the same situation or lesson again. Then your options are to try the same thing you did before, or if you learned enough the first time, you get to make different choices the second time. There is a 12-Step definition of insanity that says it is doing the same things over and over again, but always expecting a different outcome. I hope that I’ve learned enough from my companion animals—and my life lessons—that I will be able to make different choices in the future. I almost wrote “better” choices, but as I said in the beginning of the book, sometimes you can’t regret the choices you made because they almost always bring you right to where you are supposed to be—whether to learn a lesson again, or to try something different. “No matter where you go—there you are.” I don’t know who I would be if I hadn’t made the choices I did in my past, but I’m fairly certain that I would still be making mistakes and still repeating some lessons.

The lessons I have learned from my companion animals have always been grounded in trust and love. There has been joy and laughter. Pain… yes… there has been pain—but always the pain of letting them go is with love as the basis. Never has a painful lesson with my animals been malicious. Unlike humans who all too often hurt each other with their words or actions.

My first pets taught me about friendship and responsibility. They were my friends when it was difficult for me to make friends in school because of how often the military moved us as I was growing up. They taught me how to be responsible—whether it was cleaning Greta’s or Pete’s cages, making sure that Bandit’s litter box was clean, Brandy walked, or just keeping their food and water bowls filled. They depended on me, and their health and welfare were my responsibility.

Midnight showed me that sometimes when we think we have lost all hope, miracles can happen. His reappearance after Andrea thought he was dead, and his absolute devotion to her that kept him alive when his burns could have killed him was nothing short of a miracle. Whenever I have felt like just giving up, I often think of Midnight and how he fought for life, alone and in a great deal of pain. I think of his will to live and tell myself that my struggles at times with insecurities and low self-esteem aren’t anything that I can’t overcome and that I must never give up on myself or my dreams.

Being forced to make a choice between my cat, Jazzmin, and Will’s insecure ego taught me that I never wanted to be in that position again, nor would I ever issue an ultimatum to someone like that. Putting someone between a rock and a hard place—as Ryan’s mother did to him when she told him he would have to choose between loving her and liking me—is cruel and unfair. Since that time, whenever someone has expected me to choose between them or someone or something else, I have usually chosen the person/thing/animal who didn’t ask me to make a choice. There are no “sides” in life. The only other “side” to life is death, and that comes all too soon at times. I choose to be happy now, to surround myself with people, animals and things that make me happy and that accept me just as I am.

During a hurricane once, a stray dog taught me that every act of kindness is appreciated, no matter how random. The dog showed up just hours before the storm hit. Hot, thirsty and obviously panicked, he looked as if he had been on his own for a while. When I first saw him standing outside my door, acting as if he wanted to come in, I was hesitant. As I watched him, I could sense his trust and so walked out to him with bowls of water and food. When he was done eating I led him into my garage where he could wait out the storm. Two days later, when my vet’s office reopened, I took him in for a checkup and eventually found him a home with a former co-worker who had recently lost a dog. He is now happy and healthy, successfully treated for heartworms that he had. I have since found a wooden plaque of a simple cat outline that was once used by hobos on the road to identify “kind hearted women” who might provide a meal or assistance to someone “riding the rails” or traveling by foot. I’m convinced that there must be a similar sign somewhere on my home that is only visible to animals since the dog’s appearance at my door that day would be hard to explain otherwise. I had never seen him before, and of all the doors in my townhouse complex, he chose the only one that would have opened to him.

Ebony has shown me the importance of spending time with friends, and Oreo has shown me that it’s o.k. to get a little wild every now and then.

Tink taught me that every day I wake up is a day to be happy and I should be joyful. I should greet everyone as if they are the next best thing to a slice of cheese that has been accidentally dropped on the floor. A found treasure! She taught me that sometimes life is filled with pain, but if we get up anyway, put on a happy face, and spread a few pug kisses everywhere throughout our day… that we will get through it just fine. She taught me the importance of spending time with the ones we love, and about talking to them often—and most importantly—she and Snookums taught me how to listen with my heart, and to respect what someone else is trying to tell me—even if we aren’t of the same species.