Sitting on the kitchen floor, with my dying dog . . .

Gaia as a pup, already 35 lbs. . .

Tuesday evening, February 28, 2012 . . . I've been holding a "bedside vigil" for Gaia all day, most of it spent outside with her . . . as some of you know, she developed an overpowering aversion to the indoors back at our St. Paul respite; I'm trying hard not to add to her stress by forcing her to come inside, as much as I so want her by my side . . . intermittently, I don winter gear, head out to the front steps, or to the snow-insulated hosta bed, or out to her doghouse on the deck (she has just enough strength to pull herself upright and take a few wobbly steps, before collapsing in different location every now and then). I sit by her side, massaging her limbs, brushing her a bit. She so hated that when she was well, being brushed. She'd indulge me for about 30 seconds before she'd start snapping and yowling at me to stop. . . she doesn't put up a fight when she's dying. . . as I gently brush clumps of dirty fur from her coat, I toss handfuls into the yard, to the birds, squirrels, to other creatures living around Wrenwood. A keepsake of sorts, or perhaps an offering, a gift from my dear pup. . . At 3:15, I call our vet to give her an update. Gaia is weak, not eating, but quiet and resting, doesn't appear to be in pain or distressed. "There's really not much more you can do, just keep her comfortable, and if anything changes, if she appears to be in pain or if you get scared, give me a call," my vet says.

"Don't worry, honey—you'll grow into those bat-ears . . ."

Later in the afternoon, 5-ish maybe? I'm losing track of time, I hear what sounds like pattering and scraping/scrambling from within the living room walls. My worse-case-scenarioitis flares up and I suddenly have visions of being invaded by an army of mice, before I realize it's fat, icy raindrops splattering on the sky lights and windows. Snow is one thing, freezing rain is another. Freezing rain isn't for anyone, not even a well-seasoned, 14+ year old malamute.

About the same time, a faint wailing comes from the deck. I slip on my boots and run outside. Gaia is lying on on her side, in the lean-to doghouse Jim had made for her. Barely lifting her head, she emits a faint, hoarse whisper of a howl, again and again. If she wasn't before, she definitely appeared to be in pain now, or at least quite distressed. I don't want her lying outside in the harsh elements alone, so I gently drag her (as gently as as a pint-sized woman can drag an 80 lb dead-weight malamute) from the doghouse, across the deck, through the patio doors and into the kitchen, gently arranging her body on the thick bed of blankets and comforters that I had already gathered and laid out, a comfortable bed for her. We've been lying here, side by side, ever since. Once inside, the hoarse crying out stops. I gather a few pillows and a blanket for myself, and settle down next to her on the kitchen floor, holding her big paws, rubbing her arms, massaging her big ol' melon, plucking chunks of fur from her coat, apologizing for each pluck. She doesn't seem to be very coherent or responsive, just stares off into the distance. A few times, she slips into what looks like a seizure, her whole body goes rigid, then starts trembling, shaking, her mouth gaping, grasping, clamping down on the corner of a blanket, release. . .

"I said, 'GO POTTY!!!"

6:48 pm . . . the intermittent "seizures" have segued into what appears to be full-blown, constant pain. Gaia wails plaintively, constantly, a hoarse, raspy how. . .  Rocco emerges from his under-the-bed hiding place and is sitting five feet from me, on the edge of the kitchen steps, watching my every move. He's scared but curious, tentatively tiptoes over to us, lets me rub him a bit, then trots off again, toward the bedroom. I've put a few calls into our vet, hoping to catch her before the day's end. . .

For a couple of hours or so, it is almost peaceful, me sitting next to Gaia, she sleeping/resting soundly, me whispering words of thanks, and it's okay to let go, that Bob and Liddy are waiting for you, sweet girlie. . .I  thought this might play out on its own, but now, at 7:34 p.m.,  it's gone on long enough, and if she's not exactly suffering, she's definitely distressed, wailing, rasping her cries into the floor. She doesn't see me, she doesn't know anything now, but pain. 7:46 another seizure wracks her body, trembling, shaking, teeth rattling, collar jangling seizure. . . I am fighting back memories of Bob's last days, the breathing, the breathing, the breathing . . . I call my vet, she's at a kid's volley ball game, the weather is getting worse, she can't get out here until the morning; she suggests I take Gaia to the emergency clinic, which is just down the road from our house . . . I start crying, I don't know how I'm going to get Gaia into the Jeep by myself, I tell her, most of my neighbors are older, maybe be in bed by now—it'd be asking a lot for someone to come out in this weather to help . . . I think, do people call 911 for dogs? Probably not—if I don't already have the reputation of Wacky Widow of Wrenwood, calling in an ambulance for my dying dog will surely secure that title . . . my vet apologizes profusely, suggests endless things to try to comfort Gaia till she can get here in the morning—do I have Percocet or cough syrup with codine on hand? I hate to ask this, but do you have any pain meds of your husband's left? No, no, no . . . even if I did, I don't think I could get them in her—she seems to be unresponsive, save for her unrelenting, weak wailing. . . I don't remember hanging up with my vet . . .

I call the emergency clinic to get their advice—do I try to ride this out at home with her? Try to get her in? I know there's nothing they can do to "save" her, and I wanted so badly for her to slip away quickly and relatively painlessly at home, but this doesn't seem to be the plan . . .

"I did NOT destroy your favorite boots . . ."

     The person on the other line tells me if there's any way I can get Gaia in to them, that would probably be best for her but at this point, it's totally up to me—what I feel is right and what I can do, within the scope of my situation. I start crying again, I'm by myself, the weather is bad, it's late, I don't know how I can get Gaia into them—she's too heavy for me to lift by myself, but she's now clearly suffering . . . the technician suggests calling the non-emergency police number—people have done this, she tells me—and they can help get Gaia into the car—Really? I briefly consider it, then remember that it takes a good 20 minutes to get to our house in good weather, when my husband was in the throes of a massive heart attack, and a GI bleed, and countless other human crises—I can't imagine they'd be any quicker for my dog . . . I look out our front window and see Herman and Judy's lights still on across the road. Herman is well into his 70s, but Bob and I used to call him Jack Lalanne of the 'hood, this man can tear circles around whipper-snappers a fraction of his age . . . I tell the technician I'll see what I can do and hopefully be in within the hour.

Even if you DID destroy my fave boots, I still love ya . . .

    Herman and Judy are sitting in their living room and see me running up their sidewalk; the door opens even before I reach the steps. I'm not sure what I said to them, I was crying so hard, something like could you please help me get Gaia in the car—she's dying and needs help or something equally inane. . . Herman says he'll be right over, I run back to the house, the Jeep is already running in the driveway, tailgate open  (I truly do not remember doing that . . .). Herman appears right behind me, we lift the corners of the quilt that Gaia is lying on. The quilt is a very old one that Bob has had since he was a boy, one of Penny's first attempts at quilting, she once told me. . . other than her mournful, raspy pleading, Gaia doesn't move, doesn't resist our lifting. We exit through the patio door, and slosh through the icy slushy snow to the Jeep and hoist her in. I thank Herman profusely and hop into the driver's seat and take off. Note to self: get Herman a little "something" for helping me . . . we have such good neighbors . . . 

All wound up and no place to go . . .

I call my mom on the way to the emergency vet clinic. It's just a few miles down the road from our house, but the roads are like driving in a 7-11 Slurpy, the road is covered with a thick layer of grey slush. It doesn't help I'm nearly hysterical, and can barely see the road through the wet snow and my tears. My mom keeps me calm, keeps reminding me to drive slowly, keeps saying all the right things to keep me on the road and safely to the clinic. I am met at the door by a technician wheeling a gurney. She comes out, we slide Gaia onto the blanket-covered cart and wheel her inside. Her moaning is incessant, now sounds like a pleading. . . the technician is met by another, who quickly wheels Gaia into a room off the reception desk. I am told that they'll put an IV line in her, then bring her back out to me in the "comfort room," where I can spend as much time as I need, before they give her the injection . . .

Dog day afternoon

I am lead to a beautifully decorated room, with leather sofa and chair, a wall covered in cards from various thankful pet owners. Just a minute or so later, Gaia is wheeled into the room, still lying on top of the gurney, on Bob's red, white and blue star quilt. Her eyes are moist, she appears to turn her eyes to me when I stand in front of her. She is still pleading with her weak, raspy howl . . . I drape myself across her thin body, hug her, cry into her fur, breathe in her old, outside doggie smell, tell her over and over, how much I love her, how much joy she brought to our world, thanked her for holding on as long as she has, that Bob and Liddy are waiting for her, that life is even better on the other side of the rainbow bridge . . . on and on, I carry on, memories flash like a slide show in my mind, fur sticks to my runny nose, my lips, until her hoarse crying brings me back into the room, reminding me that she is dying . . . I press the button on the wall, the one the technician told me would summon them back to the room. The vet arrive seconds later, with a large syringe. She asks me if I've ever experienced this before, I say yes, I don't tell her I recently watched my husband die . . . she is kind but efficient, talking as she works, telling me not to be alarmed if Gaia should release her bowls and bladder, she may cry or gasp one last time before the over-dose of anesthesia does its job. She slides the syringe into Gaia's IV line and almost immediately, Gaia's soft wailing stops. . . I don't know whether to be sorry or grateful . . .

"Time to get up already?!?"

It's a silly thought, but I feel in my heart that my beautiful old pup held on as long as she could, for me . . . that she knew, in her wise ol' doggy way, that she needed to be here for me, as long as she could, till she knew I would be okay without her. And it's also a silly thought, to think that we humans so arrogantly believe we are the ones taking care of our pets, when they have known, all along, it's the other way around . . . what a heavy burden, our furry family members carry . . .