I had an appointment with death this afternoon
Yesterday, when I went out to the barn for afternoon feeding, I found Minnie unable to move. She had fallen from on top of the hay pile, but showed no signs of injury. When I took her from where she had been, she could do no more than lie on her side – not even lift her head. So, I picked her up, took her to the 24-hour emergency vet near us.
Minnie had 105+ temperature. And when her blood work finally came back around 11:30, it was off the charts. Her liver enzymes were around 1,000 where normal is around 100. And her white blood cell count was way up. I left her overnight, but there was no improvement. In the morning, her temperature was 106 even though they had given her antibiotics, fluids, and tried to cool her body.
I carried her to my car and took her to our regular vet, who is only about a mile away from where she had been.
Minnie is a German Short Hair Pointer/Australian Shepard mix conceived in a night of passion when her mother escaped from our boarding barn and mated with the neighbor’s dog, born 14 years ago. She looked like a pointer, but had instincts from both sides of her DNA. Minnie lived outside, loose in the day in a large pasture protected by Invisible Fence and in a kennel or in the barn at night. She and her half-brother, Simba, were always in the peak of health. They were active being able to run around all day at their pleasure, hole up in the barn in the hay at their leisure.
Minnie ate anything that wouldn’t eat her, but never got sick from it. Leather gloves, plastic, paper bags and boxes, including one box that was coated with weed killer powder. Nary a burp. I had to put everything either very high up beyond her ability to jump or in sheds or cabinets where she couldn’t go. I would always leave notes for the men who delivered grain to put empty bags out of reach and the sales receipt somewhere she couldn’t reach.
While I have written that it seemed Minnie had slowed down a bit in the past couple of weeks, was somewhat stiff with arthritis, her recent physical exam about 10 days ago was 100 percent normal. So it was a shock to see her unable to rise, to have the high temperature, and blood tests showing significant liver problems.
An X-ray this morning showed she had a huge mass either on her stomach or liver, almost certainly cancer and pushing on all her organs. Our vet told me that even if it were operable, it would only buy Minnie a few months. And, given her condition, she might not survive an operation in any case. So, it was clear what was in Minnie’s best interest and I made an appointment for that afternoon to, as they say, put her down. (Being an animal person, and knowing this phrase, has always made me sensitive to parents who say things like: “She’s tired. I need to put her down.” Gives me a chill every time.)
The appointed time arrived and they carried Minnie into an examining room where they had put a lovely quilt on the examining table. She had in IV line in a front leg. And they had given her some pain medication. Even so, she put her head over the side of the table and looked at the floor. I believe her mind told her she should be on the floor rather than up on a table, but she was unable to move to fulfill her wish.
I stroked her head, talked to her, got close to her so I could look into her eyes, put my ear to her nose to hear her breathing. I rubbed her and scratched her in all the places I knew she would have liked in her healthy days. I cradled her head in my hand. Calmed her when she startled from time to time. I kept one hand on her side to feel her breathing in and out.
Our daughter, Tracy, joined me. Our vet and her assistant came in. She attached a syringe filled with a pink liquid, an overdose of an anesthetic, to the IV line. When she pushed the plunger home, first saline filled the line and went into Minnie, then the pink liquid, then colors faded as saline was flushed in. Minnie stopped breathing almost as soon as the dose was in her system. While we kept our hands on her limp, still-warm body, we chatted among ourselves, a way to relieve the tension and sadness. I arranged for cremation and ashes in a simple box since they will be scattered on the pasture where she ran, nibbled on horse manure, dug for varmints, wrestled with her brother.
At home, I went out to feed, half expecting her to be there with her face in a grin, stub of tail going a mile-a-minute. In the barn, I hung her Invisible Fence collar away, cleaned out her dog dish and put it on a shelf. Then I fed the horses and her brother, who wonders, like I do, where she has gone. Her picture is from yesterday morning.
Minnie had 105+ temperature. And when her blood work finally came back around 11:30, it was off the charts. Her liver enzymes were around 1,000 where normal is around 100. And her white blood cell count was way up. I left her overnight, but there was no improvement. In the morning, her temperature was 106 even though they had given her antibiotics, fluids, and tried to cool her body.
I carried her to my car and took her to our regular vet, who is only about a mile away from where she had been.
Minnie is a German Short Hair Pointer/Australian Shepard mix conceived in a night of passion when her mother escaped from our boarding barn and mated with the neighbor’s dog, born 14 years ago. She looked like a pointer, but had instincts from both sides of her DNA. Minnie lived outside, loose in the day in a large pasture protected by Invisible Fence and in a kennel or in the barn at night. She and her half-brother, Simba, were always in the peak of health. They were active being able to run around all day at their pleasure, hole up in the barn in the hay at their leisure.
Minnie ate anything that wouldn’t eat her, but never got sick from it. Leather gloves, plastic, paper bags and boxes, including one box that was coated with weed killer powder. Nary a burp. I had to put everything either very high up beyond her ability to jump or in sheds or cabinets where she couldn’t go. I would always leave notes for the men who delivered grain to put empty bags out of reach and the sales receipt somewhere she couldn’t reach.
While I have written that it seemed Minnie had slowed down a bit in the past couple of weeks, was somewhat stiff with arthritis, her recent physical exam about 10 days ago was 100 percent normal. So it was a shock to see her unable to rise, to have the high temperature, and blood tests showing significant liver problems.
An X-ray this morning showed she had a huge mass either on her stomach or liver, almost certainly cancer and pushing on all her organs. Our vet told me that even if it were operable, it would only buy Minnie a few months. And, given her condition, she might not survive an operation in any case. So, it was clear what was in Minnie’s best interest and I made an appointment for that afternoon to, as they say, put her down. (Being an animal person, and knowing this phrase, has always made me sensitive to parents who say things like: “She’s tired. I need to put her down.” Gives me a chill every time.)
The appointed time arrived and they carried Minnie into an examining room where they had put a lovely quilt on the examining table. She had in IV line in a front leg. And they had given her some pain medication. Even so, she put her head over the side of the table and looked at the floor. I believe her mind told her she should be on the floor rather than up on a table, but she was unable to move to fulfill her wish.
I stroked her head, talked to her, got close to her so I could look into her eyes, put my ear to her nose to hear her breathing. I rubbed her and scratched her in all the places I knew she would have liked in her healthy days. I cradled her head in my hand. Calmed her when she startled from time to time. I kept one hand on her side to feel her breathing in and out.
Our daughter, Tracy, joined me. Our vet and her assistant came in. She attached a syringe filled with a pink liquid, an overdose of an anesthetic, to the IV line. When she pushed the plunger home, first saline filled the line and went into Minnie, then the pink liquid, then colors faded as saline was flushed in. Minnie stopped breathing almost as soon as the dose was in her system. While we kept our hands on her limp, still-warm body, we chatted among ourselves, a way to relieve the tension and sadness. I arranged for cremation and ashes in a simple box since they will be scattered on the pasture where she ran, nibbled on horse manure, dug for varmints, wrestled with her brother.
At home, I went out to feed, half expecting her to be there with her face in a grin, stub of tail going a mile-a-minute. In the barn, I hung her Invisible Fence collar away, cleaned out her dog dish and put it on a shelf. Then I fed the horses and her brother, who wonders, like I do, where she has gone. Her picture is from yesterday morning.
posted by Bud Hirsch at 8:31 PM
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