I have always been a pretty sound sleeper; insomnia is just not my problem, except when something is really bothering me. However, during the last two months I have had trouble sleeping on numerous occasions, and not for one reason but for a series of things.
It really started last year, with our almost-6-year-old dog, Lily. She had been slowing down for a while, but near year end she developed two large lumps nearly the size of tennis balls in her jowls. We took her to the vet for a biopsy, and when I picked her up, he told me what he suspected: cancer. However, when the results came back, it was a nasty infection, not cancer. We thought she had dodged a bullet.
She had to go through a long course of antibiotics. Because she would not eat consistently, we couldn't get her to take pills, so we forced liquid antibiotics into her mouth. She gagged on them, and she hated it, but she was pretty good about it. I think our other dog, Jackson, would have bitten us. When the first antibiotics ran out, the infection was not quite gone, so we had to keep giving them to her another week. But we figured she would get through it, and then she would be fine.
While we were giving her antibiotics, she almost completely lost her appetite, and she began to lose a lot of weight. When we finally finished the medicine, we thought she would regain her appetite and energy. Instead, she was very lethargic and would go a day or two without eating anything. We started feeding her different kinds of dog food, slices of ham, anything to get her to eat. Finally, we took her back to the vet and said that something was still wrong.
The vet took a blood sample and did an ultrasound, and the results didn't look good: probable lymphoma. About that time, we went on a short vacation and left the dogs in a kennel. The kennel owners transferred Lily to an indoor kennel, because she just couldn't function at the place she has always stayed. That week we took her back for the definitive test: an ultrasound-guided biopsy. The results removed any doubt; lymphoma, very advanced, in several places.
Jackie asked the vet how we would know when it was time to let Lily go. He said that she would lose energy, not want to eat, and have trouble breathing. By that time she had been displaying all those symptoms for weeks. We just figured we would keep her alive as long as she could function reasonably. We have a long set of stairs, and I said that when she couldn't climb them anymore, it might be time. But toward the end, I carried her up the stairs many times.
Lily started having seizures. She appeared confused at times, would walk into a corner and then just stop, like she wasn't sure how she got there. We managed to get her to eat by feeding her hamburger the last few days. We tried to keep her alive. At night she would stand up or sit up part of the time, and we could hear her panting. She got in the habit of standing beside the bed next to Jackie, and Jackie would spend part of the night petting her. I went to bed every night for a week wondering if Lily would be dead by morning, but she was always still there.
One day Jackie called me at work because Lily had a major seizure. I was in a meeting, so by the time I called back, everything was better. Still, I warned my friend John at work that I might be in late the next day, because I might be taking the dog to the vet in the morning.
That night, Lily had a very rough time. She was up and moving around, coming over to Jackie, breathing hard. She pooped on the floor in our room four times, something she had not done before that night. She had a bad case of diarrhea. Once during the night Jackie let her out back, and Lily climbed all the way up the stairs one last time, though I had not thought she could. By morning, we knew it was time.
I called the vet. We had the option of getting an appointment and staying with her or just dropping her off. It was hard enough dropping her off; I did not want to watch her die. I did not intend to ask for her ashes back, but Jarrod asked me to get them, and I wasn't going to deny him that. I took her to the vet and composed myself in the car before I took her in. I held it together pretty well at the vet, considering that I have trouble keeping my emotions in check. They asked if I wanted to go back with Lily and say a last goodbye. I said no. As they took her back, I looked the other way, out the window. I stood there and waited until they brought me her leash and collar, took them and left.
Yesterday, we picked up her ashes. I'm glad we have them. All that's left of her fits in a small urn. I loaded a picture of her when she was just a puppy on my desktop at work. The picture says 3/06/2005 on it; she was just a few weeks old. She made it to her sixth birthday, but not much longer.
I miss her more than I thought I would.
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