Truth
to tell, he was a thoroughly rotten dog. Stubborn, loud, obnoxious,
hard headed, disobedient, willful and feisty. He knew every possible
inside hiding place, wouldn't come when he was called, raised hell
with all the neighborhood cats, the mailman, the UPS driver, the yard
man, and every unsuspecting pedestrian who happened to walk by the
house. A dreadful bully when he was younger, picking on and
provoking the other dogs to distraction, rarely giving them a
moment's peace - the tables turned with the advent of the new pit
bull and he suddenly found himself the target - Michael and I both
wanted to feel sorry for him but it was too satisfying to see him get
a dose of his own medicine. And when it came to escaping
the yard,
he was a regular Houdini. He could have taught classes in digging
and dismantling fences and other obstacles.
On
the other hand, he was a snuggler, a cuddle bug who slept under the
covers with Michael and loved with his whole being. A happy,
energetic, curious often frenzied little animal with innocent doe
eyes and a ready smile. All in all a thoroughly rotten dog and
Michael and I loved him more than words can say.
I
didn't witness the attack, a fact I will be eternally grateful for.
I found him lying on his side in the yard with the pit standing over
him, blood on her muzzle. For one shocked instant, I was convinced
he was already dead but then I realized that despite the blood and
the damage to his throat, he was still breathing although it was a
ragged and ghastly sound. I shoved the pit aside and as gently as I
could, gathered him into my arms and carried his small, limp body to
the car. Several times during the drive, he shuddered and stopped
breathing for a second or two but mostly he just lay there, broken
and bleeding and struggling. I couldn't quite believe that he was
still alive.
My
vet stabilized him, treated him for pain and shock and blood loss and
wrapped his neck and throat before sending me on to a second more
skilled and better equipped vet clinic where a team of doctors and
technicians were waiting. He was immediately put on more IV fluids,
given more pain medicine and x ray'd to determine the amount of
damage. It was substantial, the doctors realized quickly, and life
threatening. The shoulder muscles on his right side were torn and
detached, he was still losing blood but most seriously, his trachea
had been perforated and he was barely able to breathe on his own.
There
was no way to tell exactly where or how bad the puncture was, if it
was repairable, or what other internal injuries there might be. He
was prepped for emergency surgery, I was prepped to hope for the best
but prepare for the worst. And I still hadn't been able to reach
Michael to tell him what had happened. At some point during the next
hour, I lost any ability I had to think clearly. With no other
choice to be had, I turned it over to God and began to pray.
An
hour later, he was in intensive care and being closely monitored.
The trachea had been repaired but if it would hold was anybody's
guess. He was intubated, getting oxygen therapy and fluids and on a
morphine drip. Twelve hours later they removed the breathing tube
and for nearly a half hour it seemed as if it all might've worked but
then he began to struggle. They increased the morphine and oxygen
and re-inserted the breathing tube but the repaired trachea had torn
loose in places. Rather than do a 2nd surgery, they eased
him into a medically induced coma. It was buying time and we all
knew it. He could arrest at any time, they explained to me, and even
if he survived, they expected it was just the beginning of any number
of unforeseen injuries. By the next morning, there was blood in his
urine, signaling kidney damage, and even intubated, he'd stopped
breathing several times during the night and the ICU nurse had
miraculously brought him back. There were, they told me, signs he
was still in pain. I changed my prayers to
heal him or take him, God, but don't let him stay this way.
God stayed quiet.
I'd
finally managed to reach Michael and after an extended, painful and
inevitable conversation with the doctors, I knew it was time. They
wanted to extubate him and see what happened. If he could breathe
without it, there was a glimmer of hope. If not, they said , very
gently, they recommended discontinuing the treatment. It was on me
to convince Michael. He sat quietly and listened while I explained
the coma, the oxygen, the morphine, the severity of the injuries and
the pain. I assured him they'd done absolutely everything they could
do. It was time to put an end to the suffering, it was time to let
go. It was the last kindness we could offer. He asked if that was
what the doctors thought too and I took a breath and told him a small
but necessary almost lie. I didn't know how to explain to him that
the vets rarely if ever will say the words. They might dance around
it and try hard to lead an owner to it but the final decision was
his. He sat for several minutes with his head in his hands, then
finally nodded.
One of
us needs to be with him, I said as gently as I knew how but already
knowing he would never be able to face it.
"I can't," he said helplessly.
"I know," I told him.
I drove
back to the clinic with an overwhelming sense of sorrow but also a
wave of relief. They brought me to a room with a leather couch and a
wall of windows facing the bayou courtyard with a statue of St,
Francis just outside the door. The vet removed the breathing tube
and they brought him to me, placed him on the blanket covered couch
with his head in my lap and gave him a series of IV injections. In a
matter of seconds, his ragged breathing slowed then stopped. His
journey was over and he crossed the bridge peacefully in the arms of
someone who loved him, with one of most compassionate vets I've ever
known at his side.
When it
was done, the only question Michael asked me was if Jimmy had known
it was me holding him. It had never occurred to me that he might not
know my voice or or my touch and so the question caught me off guard
but I said yes, firmly and with absolute conviction. Michael needed
to believe it and so, I realized, did I.
P.S.
I
didn't really mean it all those times I called you Satan's spawn.
And about that threat to cut your vocal chords, it was just talk.
Rest in peace, Jimmy Ray. We were blessed to have had you. What I wouldn't give for one more day.
Just
this side of heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge.
When
an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that
pet goes to Rainbow Bridge. There are meadows and hills for all of
our special friends so they can run and play together. There is
plenty of food, water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and
comfortable. All the animals who had been ill and old are restored to
health and vigor. Those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and
strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and
times gone by. The animals are happy and content, except for one
small thing; they each miss someone very special to them, who had to
be left behind.
They
all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops
and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent. His eager
body quivers. Suddenly he begins to run from the group, flying over
the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster.
You
have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet,
you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The
happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved
head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so
long gone from your life but never absent from your heart.
Then
you cross Rainbow Bridge together.
