Away*

Since Ken brought Duncan home seven years ago we have only been apart five nights total, three of them while I was in Atlanta that afternoon when I first got sick. With the exception of two random nights since, we have always been together. I don't know what last night was like for him but I'd like to imagine that he curled up with Ken and the cats and didn't notice my absence at all, that this morning Ken rose early and took him for a nice, long walk in the park and they played away the morning. Nothing would make me happier.

I know what the night was like for me, though. It was spent on a red-eye from Denver to Newark sitting next to my mother, looking out the window at the orange, halogen blobs of lights of unnamed cities rising up and falling away in the darkness below us, thinking of him, feeling everything very clearly, alternately overjoyed and exhausted. I wished he was there with me, resting at my feet waiting to step outside, stretch his legs and resume our walks in whatever place his feet touched down. He would not be picky but excited at the prospect of a new journey, heedless of the destination.

It is strange not having him here, strange seeing other people on the streets of Buffalo walking their dogs. These next few days are ones that won't require me to rise early, put on my shoes, take him outside and look after his every need. But I know he is safe with Ken, probably excited to have the opportunity to coax his dad into giving him more treats than I do, to take advantage of every possible situation, to sneak up on the couch and spend the afternoon sleeping without the risk of being caught by his papa.

When I do return I hope he sees the courage in me, the kind that's been lacking since he was less than a year old. I hope he senses the change in me for facing my long-festering fear and conquering it. I hope he is waiting at the door, the shredded remnants of his favorite toy, the little green frog given to us by one of our blog friends last year, clutched in his smiling mouth, his tail thumping out a sporadic but joyous beat. I hope he will be as happy to see me as I certainly will be to see him.

*This post was written on my brand new iPad from my hotel room in East Aurora, New York. The formatting looks to be all screwy, at least on my end. I apologize if you're seeing one big, long, unjustified, jumbled paragraph. Trust me, that's not how it was written. Bear with me and I'll get everything fixed as soon as I can. In the meantime, does anyone have any suggestions on the best way to blog on an iPad? This obviously is not going to work!

Rainbow Bridge

I'm sad to report that Joey, companion to my friend Sally and her husband Mel, crossed the Rainbow Bridge last night. His vitals were good and strong but after numerous surgeries and no clear diagnosis, Joey made the decision for Sally and her husband, who had struggled with it the past several days. Shortly after they arrived, they each gave him a farewell kiss and held him as he took his final breath. The family is understandably saddened by the loss of their courageous little companion. The people at work, who have been offering their support and encouragement to Sally, were also sad to learn of Joey's passing.

Having endured Duncan's Great Yarn Crisis of 2006, a portion of which was spent at Alameda East, where Joey fought most of his battle, I know that caring for a pet under these circumstances can be quite expensive. I was lucky in that Team Duncan was able to offer financial support when Ken and I were unable to manage the cost of his medical bills on our own. Without their help, Duncan would not be with us today and the stories and thoughts I have shared with you for nearly a year on this blog would not have been possible. I am in debt to their generosity and compassion.

I know that these are difficult times we live in and that with the rising cost of gas and food it's hard to find any extra money, but I spoke with Lisa at Alameda East and learned that Joey's medical bills are considerable, especially since Sally and her husband are on a fixed income. It is my hope that with even the smallest of donations we can help them, even if only a little, to offset these expenses and give them time to grieve their loss rather than worry about money. If you'd like to donate (even $10 or $20 will help!), you can do so by credit card or check. Credit card contributions can be made by calling the hospital at 303-366-2639 or you can send a check to:

VCA Alameda East Veterinary Hospital
9770 East Alameda Avenue
Denver, Colorado 80247

Please mention Joey's name, as well as the name of his companions, Sally and Mel Almendares. Their client ID number, which I'm told will expedite the process, is 121374.

If you're unable to contribute but know of any organizations that help provide relief for families on fixed incomes who have suffered the loss of an animal companion and the high veterinary bills, please share those with me as well so that I can pass them along to Sally and her family.

Thank you for your support and kindness.

Rewind (Part 3): Team Duncan

In the three years Duncan has been with us, we have only been apart five nights, three when I was in Atlanta when I first got sick, and the two he spent at Alameda East. Ken came home late that Saturday and we both went back to the hospital to take him for a walk and let him know we had not forgotten him. After an hour or so, sitting with him, cradling his tired head on my lap, talking with his doctor, Ken returned to Thornton and I spent the night laying awake in bed, Winnie curled on my hip, Pip rolled up in a ball on my chest, Olive on the pillow above my head. I was exhausted having spent much of the previous night standing in the cold watching my dog vomit into the bushes. I spent most of the night on my back watching the orange glow of the street lamps peek through the curtains and between the slats of the blinds. I missed the way he rolls over me as I climb under the covers, snorting and and rubbing his head against my arm. I missed his weight at my feet. He always stays with us until we fall asleep and then he jumps down and shuffles under the mattress where he snores softly. It was a long night and as warm and protective as the cats were, Duncan's absence weighed heavily on my mind.

Ken came home the next morning and we went to Alameda East once again. His condition hadn't changed and although subsequent x-rays had yet to determine what was happening in his stomach the doctor was still encouraging immediate surgery. Do it now! He could go septic at any moment! You don't have time to think! While figuring out what we could do I applied for a grant the hospital's board of directors offer, which is used to prevent economic euthanasia. They wouldn't meet until Monday morning, which could be too late but it was worth a try. Obviously we wanted the surgery but our finances were such that we couldn't afford it on our own which was the most horrible feeling in the world.

It was at that point that I went home and called everyone I knew and begged for money. It was not a pleasant experience and each time I made a new call I found myself sobbing all over again. Ken watched helplessly as I snotted over the phone, pacing back and forth and pulling my hair out, but by the end of the afternoon I'd finally raised the money we needed with the help of my mother, Ruth, Kelly, David and his mother, Cee Cee, and eventually my father. This generous group became known as Team Duncan and it's to them that Duncan, Ken and I owe every memory we've made together over the course of the past year.

I quickly called the hospital and gave them the go-ahead. "Do it now," I practically screamed. But this is where things became confusing. The doctor said no, she wanted to wait and see what would happen. The radiologist had looked at the x-rays and wasn't sure surgery was necessary at that point.

"But you've been telling us his intestinal wall could perforate at any moment, that he could go septic and that if that happens the only viable option would be to put him to sleep." I was near sobbing again.

But she held firm; she wanted to keep him on the fluids, keep monitoring his x-rays and hold off on surgery until they knew exactly what was going on. Reluctantly and with an enormous amount of fear we agreed. Ken decided we'd hold off and try to get him to our vets, Dr. Rogers and Dr. McCarty at Fire House. They knew Duncan, they knew us (Ken had worked for Dr. Rogers and we occasionally socialized with him) and we trusted them completely. Until then, all we could do was wait and hope nothing happened in the meantime.

Rewind (Part 2): Two Pictures

I thought the worst of it was behind us, that all the yarn had come up–albeit it slightly bleached and in long, gloopy strands–but I thought Duncan was in the clear. Hours later, however, it was obvious he was not. He still enjoyed laying outside at the end of our walk, his eyes pointed toward the geese which had herded up across the street at the tennis courts, but he stopped eating and drinking, a sure sign that all was not well. Ever vigilant he was never out of my sight and when it was obvious he was an unhappy puppy, I did the first thing any responsible person would do: I went into denial. Whenever he began to look wilted and lethargic I simply popped on his leash and took him for a walk, which always revived him. On those walks that cold Friday night he was his old self, which seemed to say, "Nothing wrong here, Chief. Full steam ahead!" It was when we returned home and he collapsed onto the floor in an exhausted heap, uninterested in any of his toys, or even treats, that it became apparent he did not feel well, that we were not only not out of the woods but perhaps only just heading into them.

By ten o'clock I was in a panic. He hadn't eaten a thing, had begun retching up the water I practically forced him to drink. He hardly moved, just laid there, barely lifting his head even when I spoke his name. I called Ken, who was training in Thornton, and asked him to come home and take a look at Dunc. Ken is a certified vet tech–which was the reason we originally moved to Denver–and I assumed he'd know what we should do.

"He's not eating, at all," I told him. "And everything he drinks comes right back up. He won't play with his Baby or his Buddy and the only time he shows any sign of life is while we're walking. I'm worried." On his advice I scrambled some eggs, prepared some rice and had them ready to go right when Ken walked in the door.

And that's when the little poop pulled a fast one on me. The second the door opened Duncan sprang to life, jumped up on Ken, kissed him and licked his hands, ran and got his toys, turned in joyful circles. I stood there dumbfounded; the dog playing with Ken was not the dog I had been sitting with all night. His ears perked up, his tongue lolled out, his back end shook almost violently with the wagging of his tail. Ken arched his eyebrows and looked at me in that way of his that says, "Clearly you've been exaggerating again." I stuttered and explained that Duncan was faking it, that the minute Ken put the eggs and rice down my point would be made: Duncan would sniff it, maybe even take a polite lick, but he wouldn't eat. As Ken set the bowl down, Duncan practically leapt at the food, inhaling it in one, maybe two big bites. Almost immediately he turned to his water dish and downed everything, his tail wagging the entire time. I shook my head and stammered about how bad it had been, how this strange animal in front of me was the not the dog he'd been only moments before Ken had opened the door.

"Just keep your eye on him," Ken told me, gathering his things. "As long as he's eating and drinking he should be fine. The yarn probably just upset his belly." He scratched Duncan behind the ear, grabbed his stuff and left. He was home for all of ten minutes, and no sooner had he left the property than Duncan stood up, faced me and yacked all over the carpet. All that water, all those eggs, each and every grain of rice, spread out in a nice yellow puddle at my feet. I opened the door, led him outside and rubbed his back while he heaved for the next ten minutes, knee deep in the snow.

It continued for the rest of the night. Saturday morning dawned for me at roughly 3 AM. Following are the text messages I sent Ken:

2:59 AM: The eggs are back. He's puked 7 times all over the apartment.

4:59 AM: And we're up puking again. He's a sad puppy!

5:06 AM: Now he's drinking lots if only to have something in his belly to puke. He looks terrible.

5:09 AM: Call me when you're up, 'kay?

7:34 AM: We're up again, but he drank some more.

7:55 AM: And we're puking again.

9:38 AM: Outside puking. He's so tired. And you'd definitely notice he's sick if you were home now!

On and on it went. It seemed he'd eaten an infinite number of eggs and an unending supply of rice. They just kept emerging. By that afternoon I was scared so I called Ken and told him I had to do something, that he needed to see a doctor immediately. Our vet had just closed and the only place available was Alameda East, which was less than five minutes away. Ken consented and we were out the door.

I don't know what I expected, maybe that they'd give him something that would make him puke any remaining yarn, that he was dehydrated and they'd put him on fluids, that there would be a pill that would make him better. I certainly didn't expect what they told us: that the yarn was still in his stomach, possibly his intestines, that there was a blockage and that if it didn't pass soon we ran the risk of his intestinal walls tearing and resulting his body going septic, which would cause his death. I was floored, couldn't speak, didn't know what to say or do. They left me alone to think and talk with Ken, decide what we needed to do, what we could afford.

I think that was the most shocking thing, that his entire life hung on our already precarious finances. How could something like this happen and the deciding factor come down to money? He was only two years old! It wasn't his fault I'd been careless and left the yarn out. And now his fate would be decided by whether or not we could pay to save him. This was the dog who had saved me during my anxiety attacks, the one who'd comforted me when no one else had been able to and this was how it would end?

The x-rays came back inconclusive (yarn absorbs the dye they use so catching a clear image is almost impossible). They kept telling me we needed to do surgery immediately or he'd die. Immediately! Now! You don't have time to think about it! But they wouldn't do it without payment up front and we didn't have the $5000 they had quoted us. My mind swam. They did want to keep him overnight for observation and to get his fluids up, which meant I had to leave him.

I asked for a moment alone with him. We curled up on the floor in the office. He rested his sad, little head in my lap.

"These are my favorite parts of The Duncan," I told him. "The ears," I said, squeezing them softly, running my fingers though the long hair that grows there. "The cheeks," I said, pulling on his jowls which hang slightly lower than his mouth. "And the paws," I said, rubbing his feet, rolling my fingers between his pads and the blond hair between them. "These are my favorite parts of The Duncan and I won't do without them." He sighed and his eyebrows did that thing they do which tells me he understands. "Papa is going to leave you here but he'll be back. I promise. Your job is to get better."

As they took him away I took two picture:

one of my limp little dog

and one of me

because I never want to forget how afraid I was for him.