Pawcurious Vet Blog: Pet help, stories, and information with Dr. V

Every pet that enters our lives has a special place in our hearts, without a doubt. I can rattle off the list of the menagerie I’ve lived with and tell you stories for hours. But within that hierarchy, there is always that one special one- your heart dog (or cat or horse…), as Dr. Crosby has so aptly described it. The one who really taught you what this whole pet-having-thing is all about.

I can talk about all my departed pets with a smile and a wistful remembrance. But when you ask about my heart dog, there’s a pause first. The pause where I stumble into that little hole that time refuses to entirely fill back up. I pause, let the twinge of grief roll over me, then tell you about Emmett. I speak about him a little more briefly than I do my other pets, if you happen to notice- because I can’t get through everything I want to say about him without tearing up, even now, months later.

I wish I knew exactly what it was that makes a dog a heart dog as opposed to a dog you love a whole lot. Shared experience? Similar personality? A particular understanding that goes deeper than the usual personality descriptors? I don’t know how it happens or why, but I know it when I see it. And I know when so many of you responded in past posts on the topic that many of you know exactly what I’m talking about.

Meet Bailey, beloved heart dog of Lisa and the inspiration for this post:

Beautiful, isn’t she?

Bailey left in July after a brief and intense struggle with a mast cell tumor. Lisa and I have a lot in common. She writes:

“My beautiful girl and I had 12 1/2 years together. We went through so much, both good and bad, during that time. Although her 2-year-old “sister” Sophie is still with us, and we have adopted a new puppy, no one can ease the pain of her loss for me. I asked her to help me pick out the new pup so that we would have a “people dog” like she was, and I think she did a great job. But I still cry for her and there is a hole in my heart that will never be filled.

I hope that time will help to ease the pain of her loss. And I hope that I will see her again some day. The  memory of her loving, soulful eyes, her soft chocolate fur, and the absolute and total love that we felt for each other is indeed precious, and I know that those memories will someday take precedence over the sad ones. I write letters to her and talk to her regularly, and will love her forever.”

Hold onto your hankies, guys. Want to see a heart dog connection captured perfectly?

No need for words to get what that picture is saying.

Lisa posed the question, “How do you get over that kind of loss?” and I said I would be happy to address it. Then I realized I don’t have any idea, seeing as I am still kind of coming to terms with my loss myself. I am so glad I had this blog when I was going through my experience with Emmett, because otherwise it would have felt so lonely. There’s only so much your friends can listen to you talk about your dog’s chemo and how you can’t bring yourself to throw away the dog dish before they start changing the topic on you.

For me, sharing, and having other people respond was more helpful than anything else. I know I’ve done it once before, but it’s worth doing again- I’ll open it to the floor. Who was your heart pet? What helped you come to terms with their loss (if they are no longer with you.) I’m not going anywhere, I might as well get to know all of you better, right?

And to start: Lisa, my heart ached for you reading your every word. It’s evident how much Bailey is missed. Thank you for sharing her with us.

Dedicated to Bailey- puppy heart, soul mate, kind soul, sorely missed.

September 13th marks the third annual National Pet Memorial Day. I didn’t even know there was a National Pet Memorial Day, and it took a bit of digging to determine how this day came about (it appears to have been designated by the International Association of Pet Cemeteries), but just so you know, it’s the second Sunday of September.

I wrote a post about Emmett’s last trip to Dog Beach before I knew it was his last trip to Dog Beach, and I never did post it. It seems like as good an excuse as any to finally get to share it:

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We call this “living life to the fullest.” Otherwise known as, it’s another gorgeous day so why not hit the beach again?

We were joined in the adventure by my trusty tech Amber, and her wirehaired dachshund Sergeant.

He likes to play hula hoops with his frisbee.

It was busy, per usual.

While Sergeant was content to watch from the shore, Emmett plunged on in. The water was fine.

This dog won the award for coolest looking dog at the beach:

So, I’m assuming basset and dalmatian. He definitely had a Basset demeanor (fortunately).

A good time was had by all.

Brody is not Emmett, nor should he be. There is a lot I have yet to learn about Brody: his personality, his likes and dislikes and quirks. I am excited for that period of discovery. I have been blessed with such vivacious pets in my life, from crotchety Taffy to daft Nuke, mild Mu and the inimitable Emmett. I can’t wait to find out who Brody will be. I’ve already found that he, unlike my other dogs to date, has begun bonding immediately with people other than myself in the family. That is great. And yet so different.

Nonetheless, there will obviously always be things that call up certain memories, some aspect of personality or carriage that reminds me of my dogs past.

Brody has Emmett’s eyebrows. Quizzical, raising from one side to the other like Groucho Marx at some puzzling beetle or a command he has yet to comprehend. I like that they share that.

I never knew Emmett as a puppy. I like to think that he maybe looked similar to Brody.

Not the same. But some similarities.

When my husband and I took Emmett to Dog Beach a couple of weeks ago, my husband commented how the place was like ‘heaven for dogs’. I was thinking the same thing, though he probably wasn’t thinking about it in as literal a context as I was.

This weekend, I went again, without my husband and kids. Just me and Emmett. He had a fantastic time, wading through the surf, visiting other dogs, getting lots of pets. It was a perfect day. That night, things started to go downhill. Fast. I threw every med in my arsenal at him; talked to multiple people about rescue treatments, got ready to cancel my upcoming anniversary trip with my husband.

Through all of this, Emmett has been so compliant, so happy. It was hard to believe he was as sick as he was. Most people had no clue, though those with more astute observational skills could pick up the shaved forearms, the temporal muscle atrophy. But then boom- it happened. He looked sick. And nothing I tried was making it better. I was text messaging my boss trying to track down Elspar and deciding whether or not I should run some IV fluids in when I took a breath, stepped back, and looked at my dog. Into his big brown trusting eyes, asking him what he wanted.

He gave me the look. The look you can’t mistake. The look that made me put down the phone, stop making phone calls to hunt down Elspar in Just One More effort, and give him what he wanted, and needed. He was ready. I wasn’t. But are we ever?

A week ago, my daughter and I were having a discussion about heaven. “What is it like?” she asked, in the literal way four year olds do.

I pondered a moment. “I think it’s like whatever you love best.”

“You walk down a path under a clear blue sky.”

“The water is warm, and there are lots of friends to play with.”

“The beach is dotted with unmonitored bags filled with treats.”

“Little old men walk by and give you donuts. And not those crummy granola fake ones. Dunkin Donuts chocolate glazed ones.”

“And you are happy.”

“You look to the one who held you close in life, standing at the end of the path. When she lets you go, you run off into the waves, happy to wait for the moment she, too, will join you.”

Take good care of him, Kevin.

The vinblastine (which we had tried last week when the other chemotherapy regimen failed) was kind of a bust. It was expected, but I’ll keep trying as long as Emmett feels well. Hope springs eternal.

Hope also springs eternal that a 3 year old might drop some Cheerios.

We’re feeling good enough to beg (CHECK OUT those big sad eyes! What a ham!) so that is a good thing. Man, I love that little guy.

Last week, a person who had just lost his dog in a terrible way asked me through his tears if his dog was with God. I answered truthfully: “If dogs don’t go to Heaven, I don’t want to go either.”

Yesterday, my daughter asked me why my eyes were leaky. I said, “I’m just sad because Emmett is sick.”

She thought about this. “Mulan got sick and then she died.”

“Yes, she did. I miss her.”

“But mommy, she went to Kevin, right?”

“You mean to heaven?”

“Yeah, that.”

I like that euphemism. This pet has gone to Kevin. Sounds kind of nice. Although I will say this: Kevin, you greedy bastard, don’t steal my guy just yet.

I still have a hard time dealing with the fact that I am going through this yet again, so soon after losing Mulan. I wasn’t ready yet (though are we ever, really?) The pain and sadness are exactly the same, as is the sorrowful anticipation.

But some things are different. I made good on a promise I couldn’t do for Mulan.

There couldn’t be a more perfect day to take a dog to Dog Beach than there was today. The sky was crystal clear, the waves mild, the pug meetup amusingly snorty. Parking was a challenge, but that is only because everyone else thought it was a perfect day too.

and we’re off, originally uploaded by pawcurious.

Upon being set loose, Emmett immediately set off to introducing himself to everyone else on the beach. And nosing through their bags. You have to expect that here.

There is apparently no greater pleasure after running through the waves than taking a sand bath and turning yourself into a big hairy shake n bake. I didn’t catch on film the part where he then shook off next to a family of four, creating an impromptu temporarily blinding sandstorm. Again, you have to expect that here. I still pretended not to know him. We came home an hour later, tired, sandy, and happy.

Eat.Play. Love. What more is there? He’s gotten it in spades these last few months. Thank god for the prodigious powers of prednisone and its ability to let Emmett feel good despite the reality of his disease progression. No matter what life brings in the next couple of weeks, I will have no regrets.