It was not at all the way we'd
rehearsed it. I had practiced. I knew he would not be here
forever. Every night, I stroked his silky fur, crooning my great
affection, verbal and snuggled affirmations of my awareness that
he was the greatest dog that had ever lived.
In the morning, hugs and a tussle to start the day.
Every day, first thing: checking out the window to see if the
sunrise is worth getting up for... and whether there were any
rabbits out there. I don't know if he knew it, but I always made
enough noise letting him out, to give them a more-than-fair head
start.
When he saw the camera and the coat,
he was ready to rock.
He always knew - sometimes before I
did -- that I was going somewhere.
He also knew whether or not he would
be invited. Nearly always, he was. And if not, he would express the
most heartbreaking disappointment. He took it personally.
He was my constant companion. My
sidekick, across the country and back again. He knew he was
loved.
Just this afternoon, Dad and I burst into laughter as Creeker swan-dived over the bank in
pursuit of a rabbit that had been munching on scraps a few yards
away. It was a magnificent leap.
We know that he was fine and fit at
3:00.
By 4:30, I knew something was very
wrong. I checked him over for blood. He flinched at times, and I
probed carefully, watching his expression for distress. I found
no anomaly. We went outside, and it seemed like his hind legs
were a little stiff. Such a distinctive waddle he has, I wasn't
sure if that was real, or something in my mind.
He was clingy. He trembled and
twitched a bit. I started to go downstairs, and he went
into a full-blown seizure. I was horrified. And helpless. I
thought he was dead. After what seemed an eternity, the
muscles relaxed. He started breathing - panting hard. My
first reaction was, "Poison!" A lot of dogs have
gone dead in Cherry Creek over the past several months. I went
downstairs and told Dad what was happening.
He got on the internet trying to
investigate. I googled "dog seizure" and came up with
many sites detailing the symptoms of canine epilepsy. Creeker
had never had anything like this before. From what I read, the
disease usually progresses over a period of months, or even
years. I was somewhat relieved -- this could be a treatable
thing.
But no. He trembled and twitched. He
looked dazed. I sat down on the floor, prepared to weather a
rough night and get him to the vet tomorrow, if the situation
seemed to warrant.
He had another, not quite so severe
as the first. Then another, and another. Again. I stopped
counting.
I held him continuously for the last
few hours, stroking and talking. Crying. Talking softly and
holding him, as his body contorted. The only vet in the area was
called. We got his answering machine. But I knew it was too
late. An hour to the nearest clinic, even if it were available.
I knew he was going out. I could
do nothing but be there to hold him through the terrifying pain.
I felt his soul go out through my
body as I embraced him from above. It was a white light (felt,
more than seen). I have never felt anything like that, or the
energy of the few minutes preceding -- a co-mingling of spirit.
The complete dissolution of boundaries. We were one entity, yet
still possessed of our individual sentience.
Not like we had rehearsed it. In
our script, he was supposed to be a very old dog. Happy at
the end, as he always was in life, going gently into that good
night.
I am in shock. Reality has not
imposed with full impact yet. There will be that, when there is
no nightly cover-tug, and the adjustment ritual. In the morning,
no rush to greet the day. No patrolman on the mound, barking at
dogs all the way at the other side of town. Creeker had such
eyes!
Creeker was the happiest, and the
most self-assured dog I have ever known. He never knew abuse. He knew
that he was loved.
