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A Dog's Life
Dynagrip
Break me a million heartsHoustonRegistered User, ClubPA regular
Break me a million heartsHoustonRegistered User, ClubPA regular
Well, Gus is gone now. I had just about 14 years with him, which sounds like a lot but wasn't. I don't think any amount of time would have felt like enough.
I got him when he was a puppy, from a litter at my parents' house. Gus' line has been with my family for over 30 years now. Ginger was the first. She was the runt of her litter and fiercely loyal to my mom. That's kind of a breed trait of springers. They can't stand to be away from their master. Ginger actually jumped through a window to follow after my mom one time.
Anyway, so yeah, springers. I've been around them all my life. Easily my favorite breed of dog, and I'm probably biased but I think Gus is the best one I ever knew. He was a big puppy. My parents had already named him Gus when they pushed him at me, insisting that i just keep him for a couple of weeks, to see if I wanted a dog. I kind of fake hesitated. Shortly thereafter he received his full name, Gustaf the Stout.
14 years. That's a pretty long time. My time with him kind of strangely lines up with my times on the forums as well. Well, I guess not that strangely since I've used his stupid floppy eared face as my avatar for like 12 years now.
I wish I had more pictures of him when he was a puppy, but unfortunately back in the dark ages of the early '00s, camera phones were not yet a thing and I didn't have a digital camera until after he was already mostly grown. I knew a fair amount about dogs but I didn't think I knew so much as to forego official training. That's a pretty important step with your first dog. You don't have to teach them to mimic death scenes from your favorite movies or anything, but having them leash trained and the basic commands are really important. If a dog starts to run off, you better hope it listens to you or you'll never catch it. That whole 4 versus 2 legs deal.
Gus graduation
Gus was smart, so training was a breeze. I barely even remember having to house train him. I'm sure there were a few accidents but there weren't many. He wasn't a destructive puppy either. Well, for the most part. He did demolish a foam futon that I had on my balcony. I didn't catch on to that for a while. I had just assumed he was going out on the balcony and staring majestically at the parking lot, but nope, futon murder. That was at my first apartment. I mentioned that Gus' line of springers had been in my family for multiple dog generations. One of Gus' littermates, Bailey, became my brother's dog.
I babysat her a few times and she and Gus used to have lots of play dates, before my brother moved and had kids.
For the most part, Gus wasn't terribly social with other dogs. When we went to the park, he only cared about two things. And that was fetching and swimming to fetch. It's what he was bred for, and he excelled at it. While he was in his prime he leapt the farthest and swam the fastest of any other dog. Fetching was serious business to him and he had no patience for anything that slowed it down.
Dog parks were great but Texas hill country was the best. Having a dog that you can hike, canoe, and drift down a river in an inner tube is pretty great.
I suppose it should be said that within moments of the canoe picture being taken he capsized it and shortly after the inner tube picture he popped it...
Living on your own with a dog, you can get kind of bored. You have to make your own fun. Like you know, by tying a balloon to your dog's collar.
This is how I learned that Gus was terrified of balloons. I suppose something that floats above you and follows you around would be unsettling. Moments after this picture he flipped out and ran, the balloon's string ripping off part of my stereo system. Whoops.
Even a relationship between a man(child) and his best friend will have its ups and downs. Maybe it would have happened anyway, but when my girlfriend at the time was living with me, Gus developed some behavorial issues. Almost seemed like "springer rage", which is an actual thing.
It was a really nice day in spring when we took him to the Millie Bush Bark Park, back in 2005, I think. Gus was having a great time fetching, as per usual, but was maybe getting a little chippy. He dropped the ball at my feet and as I went to pick it up, a boxer rushed in. Gus wouldn't stand for that shit and pounced on him, knocking him to the ground. I pulled Gus back. Unfortunately I seemed to be the only owner interested in defusing the fight. The boxer came back in as I was holding Gus. My left arm drifted up, between Gus and his foe, and he chomped. I like to think it was an accident, and maybe it was but it's also quite possible he was pissed that I was holding him back. Anyway, he clamped down on my arm, paused and looked up at me, and then let go.
It hurt like a motherfucker. Springers are supposed to have soft mouths, and they do, when they're bringing back game. Not so much when they have a little bear head and are biting with bad intentions. I had to go to the emergency room. My first and only time to be in one (so far). Beth, the ex-, wanted to rush there and leave Gus in the car but I was like no, we have to take Gus home first. I don't want to risk my dog getting heat stroke in a car. After several hours of waiting, the ER finally got around to basic triage for my arm.
I couldn't really move my left hand well for a week. That's when I learned I could grow a beard. I also picked up a horrible case of strep throat from the emergency room. Had a fever that hit 102 deg. I was worried that it was an adverse reaction or complication, but no, it was strep. The strep did things to my brain. My immune system spazzed out and my basal ganglia was caught in the crossfire. That bite was a definitive bookmark in my life. I was in what seemed to be a solid relationship, and although I didn't love my job, it was certainly going well enough. But yeah, the aforementioned brain damage changed that. I became depressed and barely able to function at my job. Beth revealed herself to be a fair weather girlfriend, and honestly, she was really terrible before that, but not like, overtly so that I would have known.
With the depression, I quit my job and broke up with my girlfriend. A job I loathed and a girl that was awful for me. Pretty easy to look back and say that I'm damn lucky that Gus sent me to the emergency room on the same day that some poor migrant woman was shivering under a blanket, feverishly nearby, shedding all sorts of strep germs.
I got better, kind of, but what goes down, must come up, and that time was rather rough as well. Like, it seemed like a perfectly good idea to put gus into my sweatshirt.
I have no idea why. But at that point in time nothing seemed to not make sense, my brain was frying itself and Gus was along for the ride. He didn't seem to mind. Sure, he got put in people clothes
But he also got to fetch in art installation ponds. It should be noted that art curators really really do not like it when you play fetch with your dog in their mirror pond.
I got better and Gus and I moved on. New job, new apartment, but always fetching.
Started dating again, Gus was a featured part of my profile. Pro-tip, always be having pictures of you with your dog in your OkCupid profile, provided that you have a beautiful dog. Eventually, after I don't know how many dates, my now wife took the bait. Oh what a cute dog, oh sure, I'd love to meet him, aww, isn't he precious. Game. Set. Match
I'm not sure that he particularly liked that my attention was now divided between him and some woman, but he did get more trips to the hill country out of it.
Things progressed and eventually I was engaged. My now fiancee adored Gus and there was zero doubt that he would be featured in our wedding. It was a long engagement and a few months before the wedding she noticed that he was breathing heavily while sleeping. I brushed it off, no, he's fine, nothing to see here. But I ended up taking him to the vet. The initial diagnosis was not good. Likely lymphoma, he would be lucky to make it to the wedding. He was 12 by then, and up to that point had been in picture perfect health. An additional exam showed that he didn't have lymphoma, but instead a very large thymoma, which was pushing up against his esophagus, causing the heavy breath. As far as tumors go, it was benign and able to be removed without much trouble. The dollar cost was high, but I figured it would buy me a couple more years with my Gus, and that seemed like a fair deal.
Seeing your dog whacked out on painkillers after surgery is kind of funny. He may not have even realized I was there.
He recovered fast, and within a few short weeks was ready for the wedding.
This was a huge deal. Having my dog die days before I got married probably would ruined the whole occasion for me, but he was an able bodied and very handsome participant.
~$8,000 in vet bills, completely fucking worth it. Helped make for a great wedding and he even got to live in a house with a yard, for the first time.
But 12 is old for a dog. And his body wasn't done rebelling. Next he got a huge lipoma on his left hind leg. At first it looked like it was just disproportionately muscular, but no, the vet said it was definitely a fatty tumor, embedded in his muscles. Difficult to remove and would require a lengthy recovery. He kept on, and his gait got a little wonky. He started having some trouble walking, and more than a few times his hind legs would slide out from under him as he went down the stairs. His breathing got heavier, he went to the vet for that too. Eventually his legs got bad enough that my wife insisted that we take him to the vet. I was resistant this time as well. Not due to lack of concern but denial really. I had to face Gus' mortality 2 years ago, and wasn't eager to do so again. He was given some pain pills and was set for a follow up appointment. I had already had it in my mind that surgery would not be in the cards and that we shouldn't burn a bunch of money on diagnostics as well.
My wife took him to the follow-up appointment, and the vet told her that his problems could potentially be easily treated, like using antibiotics for an inflammation in his vertebrae. So an x-ray was asked for, and an x-ray was performed. The vet called me the next day with the radiologist's report. The news was not good. His mobility issues were due to a couple of things, dysplasia of the hip and severe muscular atrophy and in his right leg. A dangerously narrowed space in his vertebrae, impinging on his spine. Lastly, the x-ray revealed a ~10 cm sized growth near his spleen. The vet said that they couldn't be sure what it was, and wouldn't know without exploratory surgery or additional imaging. He described the growth as a "time bomb", and that the spleen was a heavily vascularized region. If the growth burst, Gus would bleed out into his stomach. Not a good death. Removing the spleen could potentially fix that, but nothing would have been able to be done for his hip, or his spine. I hung up with the vet, kind of in shock and talked with my wife. I called the veterinarian back, hoping for some kind of silver lining. Can I still take Gus to the dog park? No, I wouldn't recommend that. Rough play could burst the growth on his spleen or he could end up paralyzed from the L4 vertebrae down. Gentle walks would be ok though.
Gus didn't live for gentle walks. He lived for fetching. And he lived to be with me. I'm going to be traveling a lot for work, and Gus' health would continue to deteriorate. Even without the travel, I would only be around Gus so much, 3 hours a day during the week. A rapidly advancing growth in his body and god only knows how many more tumors on the way. I was driving home, crying, when my brain latched on to the solution. I had to get Gus euthanized now, while, he could still do what he loved, and what I loved to watch him do. Fetching and swimming of course. It seemed sudden to my wife, but it didn't take long for her to come around.
Arrangements were made and today was Gus' last day. He was spoiled with treats and cuddled. He got to the dog park and gave it his all for over an hour. He no longer flew as far or as fast, but his heart still had no quit in it, to the last. He got his bath and slept on the ride home. An hour to go until the in home pet euthanasists would arrive. A rough wait indeed, but the knock was due. I laid with Gus and told him he was the best. I scratched his head and on he napped.
When the vet euthanasist and her assistant arrived, Gus perked up. Glad to meet new people. He sniffed around them, and they explained the process. First he'd be given a sedative, and within a few minutes he'd get drowsy and go to sleep. After a bit more time he'd be injected with a barbiturate, Stopping the heart that had no quit. I gave him one last treat, he settled in to sleep. I held him as he snored. Then the vet administered some more. Within minutes Gus shuddered slightly, then he was no more. I never left his side.
Letting go was rough, but hanging on would have been cruel. Once the results of his x-rays were known, the potential end to his story no longer shone. Limping along, an enlarging growth in his chest, struggling to breath. Never at rest. In danger of sudden paralysis, merely from a fall. Dying alone in a kennel, while I'm a sea. Bleeding out during the day, when my wife and I were away. I've given Gus a great life but I knew a bad death would undo all that. So, full day at the park while his body was still able, followed by treats and cuddles near the dining room table. When it was over, he was peacefully asleep. I cried of course, but I did not exactly weep.
After it all, I felt relieved. Like I had made it through a harrowing novel or movie, with a potential bad end. Things worked out in a good but bittersweet way. Gus went out, still on top of his game. I'm going to miss him so much, and it will hurt for a while. But I'll also have a slight smile, as I think about his floppy ears flying, one last time.
I got him when he was a puppy, from a litter at my parents' house. Gus' line has been with my family for over 30 years now. Ginger was the first. She was the runt of her litter and fiercely loyal to my mom. That's kind of a breed trait of springers. They can't stand to be away from their master. Ginger actually jumped through a window to follow after my mom one time.
Anyway, so yeah, springers. I've been around them all my life. Easily my favorite breed of dog, and I'm probably biased but I think Gus is the best one I ever knew. He was a big puppy. My parents had already named him Gus when they pushed him at me, insisting that i just keep him for a couple of weeks, to see if I wanted a dog. I kind of fake hesitated. Shortly thereafter he received his full name, Gustaf the Stout.
14 years. That's a pretty long time. My time with him kind of strangely lines up with my times on the forums as well. Well, I guess not that strangely since I've used his stupid floppy eared face as my avatar for like 12 years now.
I wish I had more pictures of him when he was a puppy, but unfortunately back in the dark ages of the early '00s, camera phones were not yet a thing and I didn't have a digital camera until after he was already mostly grown. I knew a fair amount about dogs but I didn't think I knew so much as to forego official training. That's a pretty important step with your first dog. You don't have to teach them to mimic death scenes from your favorite movies or anything, but having them leash trained and the basic commands are really important. If a dog starts to run off, you better hope it listens to you or you'll never catch it. That whole 4 versus 2 legs deal.
Gus graduationGus was smart, so training was a breeze. I barely even remember having to house train him. I'm sure there were a few accidents but there weren't many. He wasn't a destructive puppy either. Well, for the most part. He did demolish a foam futon that I had on my balcony. I didn't catch on to that for a while. I had just assumed he was going out on the balcony and staring majestically at the parking lot, but nope, futon murder. That was at my first apartment. I mentioned that Gus' line of springers had been in my family for multiple dog generations. One of Gus' littermates, Bailey, became my brother's dog.
I babysat her a few times and she and Gus used to have lots of play dates, before my brother moved and had kids.
For the most part, Gus wasn't terribly social with other dogs. When we went to the park, he only cared about two things. And that was fetching and swimming to fetch. It's what he was bred for, and he excelled at it. While he was in his prime he leapt the farthest and swam the fastest of any other dog. Fetching was serious business to him and he had no patience for anything that slowed it down.
Dog parks were great but Texas hill country was the best. Having a dog that you can hike, canoe, and drift down a river in an inner tube is pretty great.
I suppose it should be said that within moments of the canoe picture being taken he capsized it and shortly after the inner tube picture he popped it...
Living on your own with a dog, you can get kind of bored. You have to make your own fun. Like you know, by tying a balloon to your dog's collar.
This is how I learned that Gus was terrified of balloons. I suppose something that floats above you and follows you around would be unsettling. Moments after this picture he flipped out and ran, the balloon's string ripping off part of my stereo system. Whoops.
Even a relationship between a man(child) and his best friend will have its ups and downs. Maybe it would have happened anyway, but when my girlfriend at the time was living with me, Gus developed some behavorial issues. Almost seemed like "springer rage", which is an actual thing.
It was a really nice day in spring when we took him to the Millie Bush Bark Park, back in 2005, I think. Gus was having a great time fetching, as per usual, but was maybe getting a little chippy. He dropped the ball at my feet and as I went to pick it up, a boxer rushed in. Gus wouldn't stand for that shit and pounced on him, knocking him to the ground. I pulled Gus back. Unfortunately I seemed to be the only owner interested in defusing the fight. The boxer came back in as I was holding Gus. My left arm drifted up, between Gus and his foe, and he chomped. I like to think it was an accident, and maybe it was but it's also quite possible he was pissed that I was holding him back. Anyway, he clamped down on my arm, paused and looked up at me, and then let go.
It hurt like a motherfucker. Springers are supposed to have soft mouths, and they do, when they're bringing back game. Not so much when they have a little bear head and are biting with bad intentions. I had to go to the emergency room. My first and only time to be in one (so far). Beth, the ex-, wanted to rush there and leave Gus in the car but I was like no, we have to take Gus home first. I don't want to risk my dog getting heat stroke in a car. After several hours of waiting, the ER finally got around to basic triage for my arm.
I couldn't really move my left hand well for a week. That's when I learned I could grow a beard. I also picked up a horrible case of strep throat from the emergency room. Had a fever that hit 102 deg. I was worried that it was an adverse reaction or complication, but no, it was strep. The strep did things to my brain. My immune system spazzed out and my basal ganglia was caught in the crossfire. That bite was a definitive bookmark in my life. I was in what seemed to be a solid relationship, and although I didn't love my job, it was certainly going well enough. But yeah, the aforementioned brain damage changed that. I became depressed and barely able to function at my job. Beth revealed herself to be a fair weather girlfriend, and honestly, she was really terrible before that, but not like, overtly so that I would have known.
With the depression, I quit my job and broke up with my girlfriend. A job I loathed and a girl that was awful for me. Pretty easy to look back and say that I'm damn lucky that Gus sent me to the emergency room on the same day that some poor migrant woman was shivering under a blanket, feverishly nearby, shedding all sorts of strep germs.
I got better, kind of, but what goes down, must come up, and that time was rather rough as well. Like, it seemed like a perfectly good idea to put gus into my sweatshirt.
I have no idea why. But at that point in time nothing seemed to not make sense, my brain was frying itself and Gus was along for the ride. He didn't seem to mind. Sure, he got put in people clothes
But he also got to fetch in art installation ponds. It should be noted that art curators really really do not like it when you play fetch with your dog in their mirror pond.
I got better and Gus and I moved on. New job, new apartment, but always fetching.
Started dating again, Gus was a featured part of my profile. Pro-tip, always be having pictures of you with your dog in your OkCupid profile, provided that you have a beautiful dog. Eventually, after I don't know how many dates, my now wife took the bait. Oh what a cute dog, oh sure, I'd love to meet him, aww, isn't he precious. Game. Set. MatchI'm not sure that he particularly liked that my attention was now divided between him and some woman, but he did get more trips to the hill country out of it.
Things progressed and eventually I was engaged. My now fiancee adored Gus and there was zero doubt that he would be featured in our wedding. It was a long engagement and a few months before the wedding she noticed that he was breathing heavily while sleeping. I brushed it off, no, he's fine, nothing to see here. But I ended up taking him to the vet. The initial diagnosis was not good. Likely lymphoma, he would be lucky to make it to the wedding. He was 12 by then, and up to that point had been in picture perfect health. An additional exam showed that he didn't have lymphoma, but instead a very large thymoma, which was pushing up against his esophagus, causing the heavy breath. As far as tumors go, it was benign and able to be removed without much trouble. The dollar cost was high, but I figured it would buy me a couple more years with my Gus, and that seemed like a fair deal.
Seeing your dog whacked out on painkillers after surgery is kind of funny. He may not have even realized I was there.
He recovered fast, and within a few short weeks was ready for the wedding.
This was a huge deal. Having my dog die days before I got married probably would ruined the whole occasion for me, but he was an able bodied and very handsome participant.
~$8,000 in vet bills, completely fucking worth it. Helped make for a great wedding and he even got to live in a house with a yard, for the first time.
But 12 is old for a dog. And his body wasn't done rebelling. Next he got a huge lipoma on his left hind leg. At first it looked like it was just disproportionately muscular, but no, the vet said it was definitely a fatty tumor, embedded in his muscles. Difficult to remove and would require a lengthy recovery. He kept on, and his gait got a little wonky. He started having some trouble walking, and more than a few times his hind legs would slide out from under him as he went down the stairs. His breathing got heavier, he went to the vet for that too. Eventually his legs got bad enough that my wife insisted that we take him to the vet. I was resistant this time as well. Not due to lack of concern but denial really. I had to face Gus' mortality 2 years ago, and wasn't eager to do so again. He was given some pain pills and was set for a follow up appointment. I had already had it in my mind that surgery would not be in the cards and that we shouldn't burn a bunch of money on diagnostics as well.
My wife took him to the follow-up appointment, and the vet told her that his problems could potentially be easily treated, like using antibiotics for an inflammation in his vertebrae. So an x-ray was asked for, and an x-ray was performed. The vet called me the next day with the radiologist's report. The news was not good. His mobility issues were due to a couple of things, dysplasia of the hip and severe muscular atrophy and in his right leg. A dangerously narrowed space in his vertebrae, impinging on his spine. Lastly, the x-ray revealed a ~10 cm sized growth near his spleen. The vet said that they couldn't be sure what it was, and wouldn't know without exploratory surgery or additional imaging. He described the growth as a "time bomb", and that the spleen was a heavily vascularized region. If the growth burst, Gus would bleed out into his stomach. Not a good death. Removing the spleen could potentially fix that, but nothing would have been able to be done for his hip, or his spine. I hung up with the vet, kind of in shock and talked with my wife. I called the veterinarian back, hoping for some kind of silver lining. Can I still take Gus to the dog park? No, I wouldn't recommend that. Rough play could burst the growth on his spleen or he could end up paralyzed from the L4 vertebrae down. Gentle walks would be ok though.
Gus didn't live for gentle walks. He lived for fetching. And he lived to be with me. I'm going to be traveling a lot for work, and Gus' health would continue to deteriorate. Even without the travel, I would only be around Gus so much, 3 hours a day during the week. A rapidly advancing growth in his body and god only knows how many more tumors on the way. I was driving home, crying, when my brain latched on to the solution. I had to get Gus euthanized now, while, he could still do what he loved, and what I loved to watch him do. Fetching and swimming of course. It seemed sudden to my wife, but it didn't take long for her to come around.
Arrangements were made and today was Gus' last day. He was spoiled with treats and cuddled. He got to the dog park and gave it his all for over an hour. He no longer flew as far or as fast, but his heart still had no quit in it, to the last. He got his bath and slept on the ride home. An hour to go until the in home pet euthanasists would arrive. A rough wait indeed, but the knock was due. I laid with Gus and told him he was the best. I scratched his head and on he napped.
When the vet euthanasist and her assistant arrived, Gus perked up. Glad to meet new people. He sniffed around them, and they explained the process. First he'd be given a sedative, and within a few minutes he'd get drowsy and go to sleep. After a bit more time he'd be injected with a barbiturate, Stopping the heart that had no quit. I gave him one last treat, he settled in to sleep. I held him as he snored. Then the vet administered some more. Within minutes Gus shuddered slightly, then he was no more. I never left his side.
Letting go was rough, but hanging on would have been cruel. Once the results of his x-rays were known, the potential end to his story no longer shone. Limping along, an enlarging growth in his chest, struggling to breath. Never at rest. In danger of sudden paralysis, merely from a fall. Dying alone in a kennel, while I'm a sea. Bleeding out during the day, when my wife and I were away. I've given Gus a great life but I knew a bad death would undo all that. So, full day at the park while his body was still able, followed by treats and cuddles near the dining room table. When it was over, he was peacefully asleep. I cried of course, but I did not exactly weep.
After it all, I felt relieved. Like I had made it through a harrowing novel or movie, with a potential bad end. Things worked out in a good but bittersweet way. Gus went out, still on top of his game. I'm going to miss him so much, and it will hurt for a while. But I'll also have a slight smile, as I think about his floppy ears flying, one last time.
Dynagrip on
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Posts
I'm very sorry.
This was the right decision.
In my early teens, my family adopted a 2-3 year old shelter dog who instantly bonded to me more than anyone in the family. Shadow was as good a friend to me as your Gus, and I had to make the same choice a few years ago, not prolonging her suffering.
Years later I still cry about it sometimes. Fuck I'm crying right now while I type this up. But it's bittersweet, because every time I think about how much I miss her, I think about how much more she enriched my life and how lucky I was to have a dog with such an amazing personality and who thought I was god of the earth (which is clear from your pictures, Gus thought of you). Always remember the wonderful moments, and always know that Gus thought you were the best thing in his life, and he was right.
always the hardest thing to do for a friend. but, you did good, and so did Gus. I know some of these pics and stories have been around in chat and so on, but I really enjoyed getting to see this. He was an awesome dog, but you already know that.
Uncanny Magazine!
The Mad Writers Union
He certainly looks dapper in a bow tie.
After reading this I went and gave my pup some massive cuddles, and came away with some decidedly wet eyes. I'm going to be right where you are in the not-too-distant future. Adopted my pup from the humane society last year when he had a very large tumor growing from the top left canine, had it removed, but it's growing back. Hopefully his time wont be for another couple years, but when it comes I'll be by his side and make sure his remaining days are the best a pup could ever ask for.
Gus's story will help me be there for my pup, so thank you very much for sharing.
You did right by him, and he you. I wish every dog could be as lucky.
Your post made me tearful, in a good way. It made me very happy to see how Gus enriched your life, how lucky you were to have had him, and he you.
Steam: adamjnet
Thanks for sharing Gus's story.
The results were satisfactory, another contact was made, Gus was going to be puppy producing factory. But before that could happen, Gus again misbehaved. An egregious error was made, and my hand got bit. He had already been through remedial training and I felt my choices were waning. More tutoring would not yield results, so neutering it was, and thus Gus no longer bred. But 8 puppies in one go, that's pretty good, you know?
Sorry, Dyna.
Eerie.
Godspeed, Gus. He was the very best of dogs.
Dogs are hard to let go of, and the really good ones can hit just as hard as losing a human family member. Harder, even, because most people get to live a lot longer and know what's coming when they reach old age; my grandpa died in his 70s and I was okay with that, but man, every time I've lost it dog, it has totally levelled me.
You didn't make an easy decision, but definitely the right decision. Giving him up was hard, but you would never have forgiven yourself if you'd been stubborn and held on until he died in a far less comfortable way, suffering the whole way there.
My 14/15-year-old cat, Kira, is at the emergency vet clinic tonight due to kidney dysfunction. She's been there for about 24 hours, and in the next few hours I'll get a phone call with the latest results from her blood panel, which will tell us whether the IV liquid and nutrients regimen is working. If it is, she might get to come home tomorrow. If it isn't... well, I don't need to say what that contingency entails.
Picture:
This is a cat who follows me around the house and sometimes outside. For years, she'd come trotting when I'd call her name, though that's diminished as she's gotten old. She loves laps, and my lap is her favorite.
I've been mentally preparing for her mortality for about two years now.
Even if she comes home, I'll probably have to do subcutaneous fluid injections for the rest of her life. I'm willing to do that, if it means she can get a few more comfortable months with me.
the "no true scotch man" fallacy.
the "no true scotch man" fallacy.
*hugs* I am so sorry to hear this, dude.
Uncanny Magazine!
The Mad Writers Union
@Feral I'm sorry, man
Kira was more than a pet to me. She was more like... a familiar. If you've read The Golden Compass, my daemon.
First, a prologue. I grew up with animals all my life: dogs, horses, rabbits, but most of all, cats. When I first started dating a girl (we'll call her Marie for the purposes of this story) in Santa Cruz, California in 2001, I was depressed, in debt, and not long after the relationship started I got physically ill.
Against my better judgment, Marie convinced me that we needed a cat to cheer me up. We went to the Santa Cruz animal shelter and almost brought home a male tabby named, IIRC, Templeton. However, Marie was drawn to this other cat, a shy tortoise shell named Kira.
Kira had arrived at the shelter in the middle of the night, badly injured from having been hit by a car, her leg broken and her jaw shattered. No collar, no tags, no tattoo, no chip. The animal shelter called their emergency vet who drove in from 30 miles away to attend to her. The vet put in a feeding tube, wired her jaw shut, and marked her down as 'feral.' In her medical records, when Kira woke up several days later, she was so calm with the vet that the vet wrote in big handwritten letters, "THIS IS NOT A FERAL CAT," and underlined it.
By the time she was up for adoption, Kira was healthy and active, but the shelter wasn't sure if she'd suffered any behavioral abnormalities from her cranial trauma. (Spoiler: as we would surmise later, her brain was just fine.) Since Marie and I shared - to borrow a quote from a decade later - a fondness for cripples, bastards, and broken things, in February 2002, we took Kira home. She was estimated to be 2 years old at the time.
We discussed who take Kira if we broke up - the agreement we came to was simple: whomever the cat bonded with more. It was clearly me, within a few months Kira and I were inseparable whenever I was home.
When I was in bed sick, she would perch atop me like a mother hen hatching her eggs. If I was on the computer or playing a video game, she was in my lap. She'd follow me around the house, and outside to the laundry and the mailbox. She learned her name swiftly, and within the first year she would consistently run to me when I'd call. When I'd come home from work, she'd be waiting for me in the living room. I could pick her up and let her balance herself against my chest, and she'd touch her nose to mine.
I could play with Kira using toys, or a laser pointer... or I could just (carefully) shove her onto her side on the carpet. She'd look at me like I'd offended her, but she'd purr and stick her butt in the air. So I'd push her over again, and bat at her paws, and rough her up, and she'd purr harder and bat back. Sometimes she'd bite my hand, lightly, never too hard, like a kitten pouncing a sibling.
If Kira was feeling attention-starved while I was on my computer, she would paw at my ankle until I petted her or played with her.
She was a shameless daddy's girl. Every woman I've ever dated has joked (not really joking) that Kira was my first wife, my primary, the queen bitch of the household.
Marie and I eventually stopped dating - but we've stayed friends, despite some rocky years, and remains in this story until the end.
Through all my relationships, Kira has stayed with me. The first time we tried to introduce her to another cat, in 2005, it didn't go so well...
But by the time my younger tortie, Ellie, arrived on the scene in 2008, Kira's hatred had simmered down to an uneasy tolerance.
However, Kira was always good with other species.
Yes, that is a hamster.
For years, Kira and I bounced around various places in the SF bay area, but Kira always found a niche, whether that's on my lap...
on my desk where she can nuzzle my hand...
on warm laundry I'm trying to fold...
or in a convenient sunny spot.
Last year, summer of 2014, I followed my current girlfriend and her husband up to Seattle. I flew up first with Ellie and dropped her off, because I didn't want to wrangle two cats during the move, and kept Kira with me for a couple of months. (Because that's where Kira belonged, of course: with me.)
Just before I left California, I took Kira to her usual vet one last time for vaccinations and a checkup. They diagnosed her with a minor kidney infection - nothing to be too worried about. They put her on antibiotics and sent us on our way.
Once we got to Seattle, she settled in pretty quickly.
Marie, now in another relationship and with a dog of her own, moved up to Seattle a couple of months later. Since the thread title is actually A Dog's Life, here, have an intermission. Meet Lily, Marie's dog:
She's a sweetheart. I dog-sit for her sometimes. She seems to associate my car with beaches and parks and other fun doggy daytrips; if I so much as leave the door open she will happily jump in it.
Back to my life with Kira. With my girlfriend & her husband's blessing, I spent a few months off while looking for work and I was thankful to do so. I got lots of time to spend with Kira. I knew that she was getting older, and her mortality had been on my mind quite a bit since moving up here. She still cuddled, and purred, and played with toys. But occasionally she'd wake up in the middle of the night, disoriented, in the living room and howl. I learned to carry her to bed if she didn't follow me up. I'd considered what I would do if she got badly sick - hopefully, a home euthanasia, where she could be in a safe environment and comfortable in my lap.
My focus, though, was on getting a job and getting the house together and working out the logistics of living with a partner for the first time in years. I dragged my heels on finding a local vet. It was always in the back of my mind, but it was just one more thing on the huge pile of shit to do.
She'd spent a lot of time sleeping in the last year.
In July, Kira started acting lethargic. I took her to the emergency clinic and they diagnosed her with another kidney infection, and advised me that her kidneys were in a state of chronic deterioration - not terribly unusual for older cats, but still serious. They put her on a month's course of antibiotics and I switched her food to a kidney-friendly wet food and made sure that she had her own water bowl in my bedroom so she didn't have to come downstairs to get hydrated.
During August and most of September, she seemed to be doing okay. She'd vomit occasionally - but she's always had a sensitive stomach, so I didn't fret. She was eating large portions and playing on occasion.
A little over a week ago, I noticed that she was unwilling to walk down the stairs. I wondered if it was arthritis, so I'd carry her. She'd still eat, and drink, and use the litter box. I made some calls to a local vet clinic that makes house calls. They never called me back.
Saturday night, I realized she'd spent all day in bed. I carried her downstairs and put her down and she couldn't stand upright. Her back legs kept giving out on her. She ate a tiny portion of food but not much. We took her back to the emergency clinic.
Her kidneys had almost totally failed. The protocol now was to hydrate her and see if kidney function bounced back after a day or two of IV fluids. Recovery from this is difficult but not unheard of. Cats do bounce back from renal crisis with the proper care.
Yesterday, we went to visit her in the clinic twice. At the first visit, she was disoriented and wandered around the floor without giving a shit about me. It was alarming, but the real test would be the blood markers.
When the blood tests came back, the numbers had improved, but her vitals hadn't and in the vet's words, "She looks terrible." Girlfriend and I went down to the clinic with her favorite blanket and her favorite food. She nibbled a tiny little portion of her favorite food, but otherwise was visibly weak and uncomfortable. I wrapped her up in the fuzzy blanket and held her in my lap. The longer I held her, the more responsive she became, nuzzling my hand back and touching her nose to my finger. She relaxed in the blanket and I petted her while my girlfriend cried.
I'd been reading felinecrf.org for the last couple of days - a well-regarded website on cats with kidney dysfunction. Felinecrf insists that 24 hours of fluid is not enough time to make a euthanasia decision, and that it can take two or three days at a minimum. One of the vets on staff said that she saw somebody keep their cat on fluids for a week and the cat recovered; but most people don't have that kind of money to spend. The other vet wasn't so optimistic.
A really big part of me wanted to help her fight it. Before I'd adopted her, she survived getting hit by a fucking car. Complete strangers at the Santa Cruz animal shelter wired her jaw shut and kept her alive on a feeding tube for a month while they nursed her back to health.
How fucking unjust was it for me to make the call for euthanasia after 24 fucking hours? Had I lost faith in Kira's strength? Had I lost faith in myself?
I looked over at my girlfriend. She was bawling. "Kira's not fighting anymore. She's just been waiting for you to get here." I'm still not sure if she was right or not. But what I realized was that Kira was in my lap, in her favorite blanket, as peaceful as she'd looked for days, breathing normally and nuzzling my hand.
Kira was going to die eventually, and I wanted her to die in peace, with me. Maybe I could throw a few more days of IV therapy and more money to get her six or twelve months more of life, but what if she had another crisis and died on the exam table? Or alone, under the bed?
I called Marie. "I don't think Kira's going to make it tonight, and I think you should be here." Marie and her man came down. Girlfriend called husband.
With the five of us together, we all took turns talking to Kira and petting her. At least she was going to die surrounded by her favorite humans, in her favorite blanket, in her daddy's lap.
The vet came in and didn't even have to stick her again - Kira still had the IV in her arm. The vet did the deed and it was swift and peaceful.
Marie works for a mortuary now. She's going to buy me an urn and she knows how to handle remains. I paid a little extra for a separate cremation. It doesn't feel right scattering Kira or mixing her with other cats or burying her someplace strange. I don't believe in God or ghosts, but I feel very strongly - admittedly beyond rationality - that the right place for her remains are with me, just as the right place for her in life was with me.
I love you, Kira. I've loved you for 13 years and I will always love you.
the "no true scotch man" fallacy.
This is the service that I used in Houston:
http://lastwishes.com/
So, so glad that I had looked them up a while back and didn't just take Gus to the vet.
And Feral, sorry to hear about your cat. If only our pets lived as long as we did. I guess maybe we could have people as pets? Probably laws against that.
I hear some kinds of parrots live for a hundred years? Maybe that's the next step.
It sounds like you were a great owner to your dog. I wish you the best in dealing with your loss. It's hard.
Thanks for letting me piggyback on your thread.
the "no true scotch man" fallacy.