Where to Begin
I've been trying to decide what to say at the start of this blog. Trying to think of something brilliant, witty, sarcastic, astute, or otherwise clever. Something worth saying.
Three days ago, I watched my sister die.
That's it. That's the only declarative statement I can wrap my mind around. Kathren was a beautiful dog. She protected her family, and she loved me without question. She was the closest thing I had to a confidant. And she's dead now.
Yesterday, my brother graduated from college. It was a big social event in my family, and my father came home from work early on Thursday in something of a hurry to get everything set up to go attend the graduation ceremony. And Kathren has never been known for her ability to see a need to get out of the way of fast-moving objects several times her size. And thus the day was taken up entirely with taking her to the veterinarian, getting x-rays, and whatever procedures were done to try to minimize the bleeding.
Next would have come the surgical procedures, but the x-rays were a surprise. We knew Kathren was about ten years old based on when we adopted her, but it turns out her arthritis was five times as severe as we had guessed. And given the size and depth of the wound on her leg, infection and amputation were likely prospects. And she's not a young dog.
Even if the surgery was a success, even if she came out from under the anesthesia without incident, even if she was able to adapt to physical therapy to deal with the lack of a leg, it would cost us more than twenty thousand dollars to try. And odds were slim. So my parents made the decision that afternoon that in the morning we'd do the paperwork thing and the doctors would kill my sister.
I didn't know any of this, of course. I was still at the office, doing everything I could to hold things together while my father took most of the day off. I found out during the ride home that night. It was not my finest hour.
Friday morning, my father and I went to the veterinarian's office, did the paperwork thing, and were led into a back room where my sister was laid out on a heavy comforter folded over into quarters. She was breathing raggedly, with a huge red (actually red fabric, not soaked-through red) bandage wrapped around her right rear leg, and numerous points where intravenous lines had been inserted.
It was obvious that she was in terrible pain. Her eyes were scummy with tear-soaked goop that builds up in dogs' eyes, and she didn't even try pulling herself up to slobber all over my face and beg me to make it all stop being bad. There wasn't any choice. I did everything I could to comfort her, while my father signed the final paperwork and the doctor fetched the injection.
As the blue fluid was pushed into her bloodstream, I held my face right in front of her nose and petted her cheek and neck constantly with my free hand. And I listened to her heartbeat fade, and watched the light vanish from her eyes.
It happened so fast. So much faster than Rusty. He was a malamute, and he had his children there with him to the very end. He had so many reasons to be a tough son of a bitch that day. Kathren was a white german shepherd, and she first came to our family after she'd gotten kicked in the head by a horse (thus the earlier bit about fast-moving objects several times her size). She was never that bright when it came to the consequences of her actions.
But I was with her there at the end. I took care of her with every moment I had available from the first second that I'd been told about the accident. And now she's gone. And I'm alone.
I've always been a dog person. Sue-Bie raised me. Rusty sheltered me. Kathren adored me. Every stage of my life that I have any positive memories of is defined by the dog who I had to hug when I got cold and scared and lonely. And now I don't have anyone.
I don't know what comes next.
Three days ago, I watched my sister die.
That's it. That's the only declarative statement I can wrap my mind around. Kathren was a beautiful dog. She protected her family, and she loved me without question. She was the closest thing I had to a confidant. And she's dead now.
Yesterday, my brother graduated from college. It was a big social event in my family, and my father came home from work early on Thursday in something of a hurry to get everything set up to go attend the graduation ceremony. And Kathren has never been known for her ability to see a need to get out of the way of fast-moving objects several times her size. And thus the day was taken up entirely with taking her to the veterinarian, getting x-rays, and whatever procedures were done to try to minimize the bleeding.
Next would have come the surgical procedures, but the x-rays were a surprise. We knew Kathren was about ten years old based on when we adopted her, but it turns out her arthritis was five times as severe as we had guessed. And given the size and depth of the wound on her leg, infection and amputation were likely prospects. And she's not a young dog.
Even if the surgery was a success, even if she came out from under the anesthesia without incident, even if she was able to adapt to physical therapy to deal with the lack of a leg, it would cost us more than twenty thousand dollars to try. And odds were slim. So my parents made the decision that afternoon that in the morning we'd do the paperwork thing and the doctors would kill my sister.
I didn't know any of this, of course. I was still at the office, doing everything I could to hold things together while my father took most of the day off. I found out during the ride home that night. It was not my finest hour.
Friday morning, my father and I went to the veterinarian's office, did the paperwork thing, and were led into a back room where my sister was laid out on a heavy comforter folded over into quarters. She was breathing raggedly, with a huge red (actually red fabric, not soaked-through red) bandage wrapped around her right rear leg, and numerous points where intravenous lines had been inserted.
It was obvious that she was in terrible pain. Her eyes were scummy with tear-soaked goop that builds up in dogs' eyes, and she didn't even try pulling herself up to slobber all over my face and beg me to make it all stop being bad. There wasn't any choice. I did everything I could to comfort her, while my father signed the final paperwork and the doctor fetched the injection.
As the blue fluid was pushed into her bloodstream, I held my face right in front of her nose and petted her cheek and neck constantly with my free hand. And I listened to her heartbeat fade, and watched the light vanish from her eyes.
It happened so fast. So much faster than Rusty. He was a malamute, and he had his children there with him to the very end. He had so many reasons to be a tough son of a bitch that day. Kathren was a white german shepherd, and she first came to our family after she'd gotten kicked in the head by a horse (thus the earlier bit about fast-moving objects several times her size). She was never that bright when it came to the consequences of her actions.
But I was with her there at the end. I took care of her with every moment I had available from the first second that I'd been told about the accident. And now she's gone. And I'm alone.
I've always been a dog person. Sue-Bie raised me. Rusty sheltered me. Kathren adored me. Every stage of my life that I have any positive memories of is defined by the dog who I had to hug when I got cold and scared and lonely. And now I don't have anyone.
I don't know what comes next.
posted by Alexander Lambert at 2:34 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home