"Hello, Doctor."
She did not need to continue on after my response to her salutation. Even though I had only met her for the first time yesterday, and even though this was my first time speaking to her on the telephone, I knew. Sure, part of my scienter came from the fact that this was one of a few probable outcomes. But I knew. Absolutely, positively, indisputably, I knew. Being able to read people is not always a blessing, though, in this case, we are only talking about an additional five or 10 seconds of hope. Maybe I could have stretched those seconds out into an illusory etrnity, like The Incident at Owl Creek Bridge. At this point, I think I can rationalize about anything post hoc.
I remember picking her up over eight years ago like it was yesterday. My wife worked for a veternary pharmaceutical company, and many of the docs and techs were involved with AKC shows and the like. One of them bred basset hounds for shows (not for resale), and she offered to give us one. All we had to do was agree to spay or neuter the dog. So we packed up the SUV and headed south about 30 miles to a ranch-style house out in the county.
We loved her the minute we laid eyes on her. Red and white. And quiet, especially for a basset. And happy. Always wagging her tail. And while she had a fancy AKC purebred name (I forget the exact convention for naming now), she was just "Jill" to us (she had a brother from her litter named "Jack"). And our son loved her and her dog kisses. We had a dog. My first pet as an adult. Our first family pet.
Apart from the obvious reasons for vividly remembering the day, I was in the midst of what was, to date, the most challenging transaction of my professional career. Twenty-hour days were not uncommon. I had stopped shaving. I listened to only one song for three weeks in a row. My marriage was under a tremendous strain frim the hours and the pressure. I had to steal away from the office on a Sunday so that we could go check her out and pick her up. But once we got her, a certain calm seemed to wash over my life, like we had placed a perfectly-hewn keystone into a bridge, stabilizing and strengthening the same.
Jill was already a year and a half old when we brought her home, so much of the heavy lifting (i.e., house-breaking) was already done. However, we did have other challenges that I had never considered. She had always lived in a ranch-style house with a walkout basement. This means she had bever learned how to use stairs. Have you ever tried to get a 60-pound dog to go down the stairs against her will? It is humorous, to say the least. And for the first few days, she would nnot eat. For whatever reason, I thought maybe she was nervous around us, so I put her dish on the back porch. Problem solved.
I am sure this is a shock, but I do not have many friends in real life. I do have several close acquaintances, but I do not know that I would call anyone my friend, and I certainly do not have a "best friend". Apart from the fact that I do not drink and do not go out much otherwise, I am a bit of a misanthrope. And while I am sure that I can be a real fucking buzzkill to be around at times, I truly go out of my way not to bring out some of my more caustic traits in mixed company. If I am not working, I am either doing things with my family, reading or screwing around on the computer. And I am totally okay with that. People can be very disappointing if you let them, so limiting one's social circle could be viewed as prudence.
Also, I had Jill. She was always happy to see me, regardless of what time I got home or how my day had gone. Even when I came home from work at 3 AM, that wagging tail wiped all the job bullshit away instantly. She loved walks and rides (especially in the truck, as the back windows went all the way down). She was never judgmental. She was a fabulous listener and was always supportive. She never snapped at anyone, much less bite anyone. And she hardly ever barked. About the only time she would bark would be at the German shepherd that lives next door. But when she barked, she would produce such a visceral, guttoral howl that you would think she was a 200-pound mastiff! And she ran around the yard like a fucking greyhound. When the breeder visited us, she was absolutely amazed. She had never seen a basset run like that.
Perhaps friend is not he right word. She was our other kid for over eight years. We referred to her as our son's sister. She was as much a part of the family as anyone else. You can imagine our concern about three weeks ago when we noticed that she was going out to pee quite frequently and that it was taking her a long time to do so (she would squat in the same spot for three or four minutes, not her usual 10 or 20 seconds). So, even though her annual physical in January was perfect, we got her in to see the vet as soon as possible. Her urinalysis showed some bacteria, so the vet put her on an antibiotic. They also ran a blood panel, but the results were all normal.
Then she started having accidents in the house. She would squat to pee like she did not even realize she was in the house (or like she couldn't wait to get outside to go). We were hoping that this was a behavioral response to the new baby (no princess likes being displaced by a new princess, right?). For all my overpaid private postbaccalaureate education, I can be a real Pollyana at times. Or maybe I was just trying to be positive. REALLY fucking positive. In any case, the accidents were more upsetting for her than anyone else. She was always a dignified dog, and we could tell she was ahsamed at leving spots on the carpet and from being banned from the couches and our bed (we had always allowed her to be pretty much anywhere she like in our house).
So Thursday I knocked off work early to take her in for a follow-up urinalysis. When we were there, the new vet (our old vet no longer works at that clinic) said that her exam of the abdomen did not feel quite right, so they took some x-rays. The films showed that her bladder was grossly enlarged. The vet recommended that we have an ultrasound performed as that would give us the best chance of seeing any physical abnormality. So we scheduled her for a Friday AM procedure. I dropped Jill off this morning at about 8. The worst part was that she did not want to leave the examination room to go back to the procedure area. She had never done that before. The portent did not go unnoticed. Fortunately for me, I had a few tasks to complete and a conference call, so the morning went by relatively quickly. And then the vet called. And I knew. Before she said anything beyond saying who was calling, I knew.
After speaking with the vet, I called home. Based on my wifes sobbing, the vet called our home number first. Jill had a tumor in the trigone region. This is where the kidneys empty into the bladder and the bladder connects to the urethra. The tumor was constricting her urine outflow. This is also the worst place for a dog to have a bladder tumor; it is essentially inoperable. To make matters worse, the tumor was moving into the urethra iitself. The vet said we had several options, but none of them would cure the condition or even stop the growth of the tumor. So, while we could prolong her life for a short time, I did not think she would have much of a life worth living, especially given her otherwise-proud demeanor. My wife arranged for my mother to come over and watch the baby, and she called school to let them know we would be picking up our son early. I packed up and headed out.
I was doing pretty well until she came out with our son, and I could see that he was sobbing heavily. But I was still able to compose myself by the time he got nto the car. We explained everything to him and why we were doing what had to be done. Oh, to have the child's mind! He kept asking "What if..." questions to see if there was any way to fix this. He was devestated. The drive seemed to take both forever and only an instant. My wife started sobbing as we made the last turn onto the street where the clinic was located. I was still holding up pretty well.
My father met us at the clinic, which was a tremendous gesture as he never took the loss of a pet well. He stayed in the lobby when they took us back. After filling out the paperwork and paying for everything, they brought Jill in for us. She was so happy to see us. She wagged her tail and did her low, maoning growl that she did when I scratched her ears just right. She gave her brother kisses. And then, sitting on the floor with her, I lost it. Totally. I hugged her as tightly as I could as the tears flowed down my cheeks. I told her that she was the best friend that anyone could ever have and that she would be all better soon. She would be going to a place where the car window was always down, the car was never doing more than 25 and the car stopped at every drive-thru window on the way to the dog park. At this point, our son could not take anymore and asked if he could go sit with my father. I asked to make sure that he did not want to be there for the end, and, when he nodded his head, we hugged him, gave him a kiss and said we would be out soon. Later on, he indicated that seeing me cry was as upsetting as anything for him. He had never seen me cry before.
The final act was quick. They injected the anesthetic (the "blue juice" was, literally, blue) in the catheter they used to sedate her for the ultrasound, so there was no pain for Jill. My wife and I held her head and ears and stroked her. And she just drifted off to sleep. It only took about 30 seconds. My wife clipped some fur and placed it in a baggie. I closed her eyes and put her little bit of tongue hanging out back in her mouth. We kissed her goodbye.
Gone but never forgotten. Rest in peace, Jill. Go get that bunneh.
