Saying Goodbye

That recent post about calling the vet, and calculating how much an animal is "worth" in vet bills, has now become highly relevant for us.

We have two farm dogs. Scooter the Border Collie gets most of the coverage here on the blog, because he's such a useful worker. He's young and very healthy, and loves nothing more than running with the livestock.

But there's also Tabasco. She got more posts in the past, but has since gotten old and much less active. She's largely been a companion, and spends her days and nights in my office. It's hard to ask for a better pet than she has been.

The problem is, she's been getting up there in years. Just how far, we don't know. We got her nearly four years ago (seems much longer, though); she showed up at the local animal shelter the exact same day our collie was killed by a car, and we welcomed her as an addition to our Illinois farm. The vet estimated her to be at least six years old, but no one knew for sure. Anyway, late last fall she developed pneumonia. The vet x-rayed her lungs, identified it, and gave me some antibiotics to treat it.

She seemed fine. Then, over the last couple of months, she's been getting increasingly slow and stiff. And then her belly began bloating. At first we thought that was a good thing; her days as a stray had left her very scrawny and bony, and it was nice to see her fill out a bit. But in recent days, the bloat has gotten so bad she's had trouble breathing.

I was finally able to get her in to the vet today, and Tabasco looked so bad they let us cut to the front of the line even without an appointment. The vet x-rayed her lungs again, and put the image next to the one from December. Not only was the pneumonia back, but there was something worse: lots of nasty-looking growths and masses in her lungs. Those had been invisibly microscopic in the December x-rays, but were now sizable. She's got a full-blown case of lung cancer, and it came upon her very fast.

Bottom line: at her age (and this vet estimates Tabasco is actually closer to 12-14 years old), there is nothing we can do to treat the cancer. And nothing we could've done, no matter when this had been diagnosed. Declining further treatment, in my mind, is a question of accepting the inevitible and not trying to prolong an animal's suffering. He gave her a shot of steroids (to clear her airway), and a diuretic (to drain the fluid that's been pooling behind her heart), and gave me a ten day supply of pills that'll keep doing the same. The vet totally understood that the whole family needs some time to say goodbye, and to get used to the idea of not having her with us. He cautioned that she may not even survive the weekend. But if she makes the ten days, we should call and decide what to do next.

I never thought I'd break down at a vet's office. After all, we lose animals all the time. I've personally put down any number of animals. But this was completely different. I managed to avoid totally sobbing until Tabasco and I were back at our car. I'm a dog person. And Tabasco is my companion dog. I'm going to miss her a lot.

In the meantime, I've had to let her out about a half dozen times to urinate --- which is good. Hopefully she'll get that fluid drained. And she's already getting around a little better. We're going to spoil her rotten for the next ten days, giving her all the choice stuff from our table. Scooter...he's just going to have to wait.

There's a novel I recently finished reading. It's called The Art of Racing in the Rain. (Although I enjoyed the story, there are a number of reasons why I can't recommend it.) Anyway, if you happen to have read the book, you'll understand why a certain phrase has been in my mind since beginning the drive home from the vet:

Two barks means faster!