Smokey Mountain Breakdown

This morning at 3:45 a.m., my “Little Old Man” left me.

I took Babe on as a hospice case. He was fifteen, an advanced age for a male cocker spaniel, and had a stage 5 heart murmur. I just wanted to give him a soft place to die. He didn’t have a very good prognosis and had been brought into the shelter to be euthanized. Not because of his heart murmur, but because he had a bad case of fleas.

Babe had spent the first fifteen years of his life locked up in a back yard. He was taken out once a year to have his coat clipped down to the skin. That’s pretty much all I know about Babe’s early life.

The very first time I kissed him on the head, he grabbed me by the throat. Not hard, he just held me for a moment to let me know he was no pushover. He may be little but, by golly, he could put a hurting on me if he wanted to. I remember feeling very sad, that in fifteen years, this adorable little guy had never been kissed on his head.

All of that was three years ago. He was only supposed to live for maybe three months. But, I guess, after getting used to being indoors and many head kisses later, he decided to stick around for a while.

I’m really glad that he did.

He started losing weight and muscle tone about two months ago. He’d done that before. It was sort of his “Fred Sanford” act. A canine version of grabbing his heart and saying, “You hear that Elizabeth? I'm coming to join you, honey!” I’d give him more food and he’d usually snap out of it. Well, he didn’t this time.

He had a few collapses over the past few months. I mentioned the first one to my vet. She was surprised that he hadn’t died. I’d pick him up and prop him up so he could breathe better…and he would recover. But a few days ago, he began developing ascites, a build-up of fluid in his abdomen. So, I knew he was serious this time. I was planning to call the vet today and take him in to evaluate whether or not “it was time”. Evidently it was.

He never lost his appetite and he had plenty of cookies and a bowl of mac and cheese yesterday as well as his dinner. He was bright right up to the end.

I fixed him a bed in the closet where I could elevate his front so he could rest better. He had a collapse at around 3:30 when we turned in. I sat there with him petting him as he left.

I told him, “Go on to the Bridge, Baby. Go on and wait for me there. I’ll be coming along before you know it.”

I’m burying him close to the house instead of where the other more active kids are. Babe was nearly deaf and blind and slept very deeply. Sometimes, he’d wake up and I would have left the room. He would track me in the house until he bumped into my feet. Then he’d look up and seemed to be saying, “Oh! There you are. I lost you for a minute there.”

I don’t want him to have to track too far to find me.

I guess, once more, it’s time to dig a hole.

Memoriam submitted to the Friday Ark at The Modulator.