It was a day for another tough goodbye. I had the holiday off and spent the better part of the day puttering around in the house. I ran some errands, did some baking, and then the day went south.
Maggie, my pit mix I've written about under the story titled "A Face Only A Mother Could Love" was showing signs of not feeling well. In the past she had been known to eat something out of the yard that may her sick, and she and Bella found a way to break into the garbage can many moons ago and butter wrappers, plastic meat tubes and Styrofoam take out boxes were consumed. I can't believe they lived. This is only one of the reasons Gulf Coast Animal Emergency Clinic on the 610 loop in Houston know me so well.
Fourth of July is also a holiday for my veterinary clinic, so I made the decision to keep an eye on Maggie and see if she perked up. If not, I was going to drop her off at the vet the next morning. She was mopging by the laundry room door, so I let her out several times to see if Elvis would leave the building, so to speak. Nothing. After one of the trips outside Maggie went to sit under the piano. I went back to dishes and heard something behind me. She was shuffling funny, then collapsed. I couldn't get her up. Did I mention she was a chubby gal? I have no friends or family within less than an hour's drive, and the emergency clinic was an hour away.
Terrified she was suffering, went next door and interrupted a young family's barbecue and asked the dad to help. He dropped everything and came over, picked Maggie up like she was as light as a pillow and placed her in the car.
I raced to the clinic. I rang the buzzer and asked for a gurney and someone strong to help. To my surprise the 'orderly' who came out to help was the actual doctor who was going to take care of her that late afternoon. He checked her out, gave her some IV fluids and a steroid shot. After about two hours she perked up. I brought her home and we snuggled on the couch until time for last trip out to water grass for the whole gang around 10:00 p.m. I changed into pajamas and settled down to finish a program.
Again, Maggie collapsed - this time she made a loud, anguished groan. I managed to get her up, quickly changed, and she was able to shuffle to the car but had to have help getting in. Picture an old lady who has had three whiskies trying to lift the fat ass of a 69 pound dog in the dark with house shoes sliding on the concrete driveway. One fat ass trying to help another fat ass. Film at 11.
Back to Houston. The clinic couldn't believe we were back. Another shot and more IV fluids. I was told what X-rays would cost at the ER clinic. I simply didn't have the money. They made a call to my vet, whose cell number they probably have on speed dial in my chart. (I found out they went to school together and remained friends over the years.) My vet told them he would do the imaging (a little) cheaper. I was instructed to take Maggie home and drop her off at my vet's office on my way to work the next morning so they could do the exams. I dropped her off, and at the end of the day I went straight to the clinic after work.
Once in a room, a tech (one of my favorites) brought Maggie in. I didn't like the look on the tech's face. One of the main doctors in the clinic came in and asked me to accompany him down the hall to see the images. Maggie had cancer of the spleen. I was stunned - just two days prior to this she was running in the back yard with all the other dogs. The vet said the collapses happened when the spleen ruptured in two different places. He told me the first image of the spleen had him thinking they could probably do a little surgery and make her comfortable for a few months. However, when he clipped up the view of her lungs and chest cavity, he let out a big sigh. I asked him "What am I looking at?" Cancer. She was eaten alive with cancer. There was nothing anyone could do for her. He told me he wanted me to take her home, have some time with her and come back Friday afternoon on my half day off. I could only hope she would make it.
She didn't. She collapsed later that night and was struggling to breathe. I rolled her onto a flat piece of cardboard and slowly slid her out to the car. I made a ramp with boards and spent an hour getting her up into the van. The drive to Houston was agonizing. I cried and begged her to forgive me for the way I had to get her in the car. I said stupid things like, "I really didn't mean your ass was too fat. I'm just too old and can't do what I used to." I rambled on with stories about the goofy things she did over the years, how she never tired of trying to catch a squirrel 25 feet up in a tree, barking her fool head off as if she was saying, "I'll get you one day. I'll get a ladder. Yeah, that's what I'll do!"
I rang the bell. "It's Cheryl with Maggie, again." I didn't know if they could understand me the way my voice was cracking. A gurney came out, steered by the same doctor from the night before. Unbeknownst to me, my vet's office had sent copies of the images with a hint that I might be back before my Friday appointment in Baytown.
They rolled her into a room, covered her with a blanket to keep her warm, and gave me some quiet time to say my goodbyes. Tootsie (the sweet little lady who has manned the evening desk for the 17 years that I have had to patronize the ER clinic) checked on us every 15 minutes. I snuggled with Maggie, talked to her for over an hour before I told Tootsie I was ready. The doctor came in. He handled Maggie very gently and spoke to her in low, soft tones. He stayed with me until she slipped away. I checked out at the desk. I had handled the expenses while they were getting her ready for me to spend time with her. Tootsie remembered that I had Bella cremated and ordered a lovely box for Bella's ashes as part of the cremation package I paid for. She inquired if that was my plan for Maggie. I said "No, I simply don't have the money." Tootsie said they would handle disposal, which was cremation, you just don't get ashes.
I drove home with a heavy heart.
Two weeks passed, and I received a call from the clinic. They said my print was in. I didn't understand. I didn't order anything. It turned out Tootsie had a paw print done in clay before the body left the facility. They placed in it in a cute pink bag with signed sympathy cards from the team. It was totally unexpected.
It took a couple of months before the other dogs quit looking for her, especially the youngest in the house. Enough time has passed, they have settled down, but I have not. I can't believe how much I miss her. I am truly grieving. My consolation is the knowledge that I gave Maggie a happy home after her start as a bait puppy for fighting rings. She came to me damaged and terrified. I do know that her years in my home changed her mistrust of human beings. She loved people, children and any other rescue I brought in. She had a loving heart.
I think I am still mourning her loss because she gave unconditional love. You don't have that with every dog that comes into your life. I had it with Bella. Maggie stepped into those big paw prints when we lost Bella to cancer. Now both of their paw prints will rest side by side in the bookcase. They will be reminders that you don't always needs arms to comfort you. Sometimes you just need a big old paw landing in your lap - tracked in grass and mud and all.
