BEGINNINGS

 

She curls up next to me in the recliner.  I feel her heartbeat on my leg.  It is a magical feeling.  Amazing that this single small organ will determine the day and time of her death.  The steady rhythm of her heartbeat conceals the ticking time bomb that is congestive heart failure in her tiny body.

We named her before we ever laid eyes on her.  Bruce was rebuilding classic cars at the time.  I told him the next rebuild needed to be a Duesenberg.  He replied that the only way I was going to get a Duesenberg was to get a dog and name it Doozie.  Hence, Doozie became Doozer Bug Face, Little Dooze, Bug Face, Sweetie Pie, Cutie Pie, Princess, Girlfriend and Baby Girl  

We picked her up in Brigham City on December 23, 2016.  She rode home in my lap.  Little did I know this small bundle of fur would eventually destroy me.  Would I have chosen differently if I had an inkling of the devastating pain ahead?  Probably not.  I can't imagine not having her in life.

It's going to hurt, the letting go.

You knew it would when you said hello.

But still, can you truly honestly say,

That you wish that you'd just walked away?

That it wasn't worth the many smiles,

To share their life for a little while?

Yes, my dear, it will hurt like Hell,

To love them, still, yet bid farewell.

Christie L. Starkweather

We were lulled into complacency relying on the "10 year Health Guarantee" and the genetic testing performed at the University of Utah.  We did everything we could to give her a happy, healthy life; nutrition, vaccinations, safety from other animals, eagles, coyotes and traffic.  Nothing would prevent her from having a full lifespan.  Except when we ran head-on into congestive heart failure on June 4, 2023.  One month; six months to fourteen months; two years was the subjective answer I was getting from professionals.  None of it mattered.  We tried to buy time with a special homemade diet, heart meds, blood pressure meds, diuretics, bronchial dilators.  Nature would have it's own way and choose the time and day we would have to say goodbye. 

We brought her home two days before Christmas 2016 and she immediately took charge.  We had two other miniature schnauzers at the time, Roxie and Trixie.  We didn't know it at the time but Trix had a lethal cancer growing silently in her liver.  Roxie had been hanging in there since she was 7 years old and diagnosed with diabetes and cateracts.  She was my project and I made sure she got a special diet, twice daily insulin shots and eye surgery that required several times a day eye drops.

Roxie and Trixie were at first curious about the new addition but, as seniors,      they quickly lost interest and withdrew into their own dreams of chasing bunnies in their old age.  Dooze pounced on the opportunity, at 4 lbs, to seize the alpha status and took over the house.  She had so much energy and stubborness that we quickly referred to her as our Little Four Pound Firecracker.  She earned another nickname about this time: Miss Diva.

She collected rocks and brought them to us much like a cat brings a mouse for approval.  I was afraid she would swallow one.  So each time she brought one to me I retrieved it from her mouth and started the collection that has been on my kitchen counter for almost 7 years now.

One and a half years later, we lost Trixie.  It was time.  She was either awake and in pain or sedated beyond any quality of life.  Trix was hard because from the time she was diagnosed until we said goodbye was only 6 days.  Her cancer was too agressive to even consider chemotherapy.  I had not had time to process the loss before she was gone.

Trix had been Bruce's little buddy.  I knew he would miss her so even though I was still reeling, I contacted the breeder in Brigham City.  She just happened to have a litter of puppies that had the same Dad as Dooze.  We jumped on the opportunity and Miss Harlie Bear joined the family.  Doozie was less than impressed.

 

We had to say goodbye to Miss Rox later that year.  At thirteen, she was completely blind, believed to have dementia, disoriented, and anxious.  Sadly, Doozer picked on this most vulnerable family member, by growling and snapping in Roxie's blind and confused face.  Doozie was taking the role of Alpha too far.  I tried but was unable to stop it.  Mixing older dogs and puppies is not a great thing no matter what anybody tells you.  It is like turning loose a rambunctious and Terrible Two-year Old in a convalescent care home.

With the pack slimmed down to Four, we viewed life with an attitude of gratitude.  We took the dogs everywhere with us.  We were a complete pack again.  They began enjoying a game we started calling "Oh No!"

When placed on the bed, Harlie would get barrel rolled and Doozie would get "roughed up."  Whenever we said, "Let's go play "Oh No!" they would run to the bedroom and wait to be lifted onto  the bed.  There were rules to "Oh No!" though.  The whole pack had to be present.  They would not play unless there were "4 things."  No one from the pack could be missing or they refused to play.

The years passed.  The 4 Seasons.  We truly loved the small pack that defined our lives.  They rolled in the grass in Spring, sought shade in Summer, loved seeing the deer move along the hillside behind our home beleiving that they could bark them to death.  Winter had its own special charm with nose snow shoveling.

  

She curls up next to me in the recliner.  I feel her heartbeat on my leg.  Her heartbeat is stronger than usual now.  That strong heartbeat is a good sign, isn't it?  Just as soon as I'm relieved, I question if that strong regular heartbeat means her heart is working too hard, overtime, wearing out in her tiny body? The unknown is making me insane.  I cry again and again.

Dr. Toniolli explained to us that the heart is a muscle and the more you work a muscle the bigger it gets.  It sounds good except when an enlarged heart obstructs the windpipe.  There is no cure, only medications to help in the short run.  

There are five stages of grief; Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance.  They follow no linear order and can reappear just when you thought you had conquered that part.

The bargaining has started.  I promise God if he will give her five more years, he can take it off of the top of my life.  My perfect scenario is for her to take her last breath in my arms.  My face being the last one she sees as I croon to her that I will meet her in Heaven.  I have no doubt I will follow her with a broken heart.

Broken hearts are meant to be literary hyperbole; not factual in the actual terms of the words.  But, I am here to tell you, broken hearts are just that.  There is such a pain in your chest and your breathing grows labored.  There is no doubt in my mind that my heart is indeed splintering and, on that terrible day of losing her, will implode into a million pieces.

Will you get another dog some people have asked me?  I can't imagine not having dogs in my life.  They are my number one joy.  Harlie, too, will be devastated and confused.  She has never been an only child in her entire life.  I fear for her. 

Will I take the chance on enduring this unbearable pain again?  I'm not sure I could survive it again.  Why is it so much harder to lose her than the others?  Because she is so young and we are both being robbed of many more years we should have had together.  But without accepting the eventuality of losing another one, you deprive yourself of the incredible human/animal bond that is not like any other treasure in the world.

GOD grant me the Serenity to accept the things I cannot change . . .

The Courage to change the things I can . . .

And the Wisdom to know the difference.

Doozie dealt with an eye infection last week in both eyes and a swollen eyelid that looked as if she had gone 18 rounds with Rocky Balboa.  It broke my heart to clean the infection away as I was afraid of hurting her.

The infection showed no sign of improving after 6 days so we took her back to Mountain West.  (They are becoming my trusted Go-To since Dr. Toniolli is either gone from his clinic or impossible to get into.  It breaks my heart because his passion for my pet's welfare always matched my own.  I know the demands on his time and stamina have changed since he opened his own clinic.)

Anyway, we saw Dr. Akagi at Mountain West who diagnosed Doozie with "Strangles?"  I have since come to find out this is a rare condition most often found in puppies that causes swelling of the face and neck.

Dr. Akagi was concerned that something was going on with her lymph nodes and he mentioned Cancer.  At the mention of Cancer, I shut down and heard very little after that.

He aspirated her lymph nodes and, thank you God, there was no sign of Cancer.  He stated she was "reactive" to the eye infection; a condition that causes symptoms in another part of the body as a secondary response (a reaction) to the original problem.  He prescribed Predisone and indicated that was a Catch -22 because it could cause complications with the heart failure.  Once again, I shut down.

His bedside manner left a lot to be desired, basically because I had to keep reminding him to speak in Layman's terms.  I was not overly comforted at this treatment of Doozie but Bruce told me he understood Dr. Akagi perfectly.  I admit I am so overly emotional that my responses and instincts cannot be trusted.

She is responding to the Prednisone.  Her appetite is back and she is taking her meds again.

Duke at Mountain West (Dr. Simmons Assistant) has been a lifesaver for me.  She patiently addressed my concerns and explained in simpler terms what was going on.

This week has been Hell!

I have begun grief counseling.  I have what is called Anticipatory Grief.  It is robbing me of the joy I should still be feeling to have her with me.  Every day, I say "Dear God.  Thank you for the gift of one more day."

I think it is helping though I am a wreck through the whole session and the entire day afterwards.  I asked Denise if I am getting a jump on some of the grief so it won't be so bad afterward.  She answered quickly and decisively, "No, it will still be bad."  I actually appreciated her

honesty.

Denise (the Grief Counselor) taught me a new mantra.  I am finding it very soothing and sometimes have to repeat over and over for hours but while I am focusing on it, I am calm:

In this moment . . . In this breath . . . I am okay

I have been struggling that I am not getting anything done.  I have lost all interest in anything that used to give me joy.  Yes, I am in severe depression, another of the 5 stages of grief.  I am still waiting for anger and acceptance which may never come.

I feel guilty when I am not spending every moment with Doozie.  There will be plenty of time for hobbies and housework when she is gone.  Denise convinced me to spend 30 minutes a day (more or less) on something else.  She believes that Doozie could use the break from comforting me.  I'm trying.  

I am remembering now that in April/May 2023, I woke up on two separate occasions to find Doozie sitting up and focused on some unknown entity across the room.  She would do that for a few minutes and then go back to sleep.  Did her heart do a flip flop that woke her up with confusion from a dead sleep?  Or was she seeing something across the room that was invisible to me?  I did not recognize it at the time but I think that was the first sign of her condition.  

Doozie's Bucket List

Walking around Beus Pond

Homemade Puppichinos

Melon (any kind, but I think watermelon may be her favorite

Playing "Oh No!" with the whole pack

Taking the garbage out/getting the mail with Bruce

Homemade Turkey Jerky

Sitting on my lap and licking the lotion off my face and neck and possibly the saltiness of my tears.

Since her episode with swollen lymph nodes and "strangles", she has been doing extremely well.  She eats great, takes her meds, is happy and playful, is not coughing or having difficulty breathing, no passing out or seizures which I am told is the next and final progression of her condition.  

Why can't I love and appreciate this time?  This is the best she will get which is just like having her old self back.  I am finding myself hoping and praying for the 2 year time frame that was suggested at diagnosis.  At first, I refused to accept that would be a good time frame.  But now I pray and pray that I will have her for that much longer.  If my prayers are answered, I do not want to spend the next year and a half in this purgatory.  I MUST feel the joy of her being again instead of projecting the horrific pain I know is ahead.  

I have decided to ask Travis for a tattoo of her pawprint.  We tried an ink transfer which was an epic fail.  I am going to try a plaster cast which hopefully he can work with.

Doozie was "bell trained" when we got her.  We have laughed and enjoyed watching her tell us she needs to go outside.  She will catch her nose underneath the bell and then flip it as high as she can in the air.  Such simple things have given us so much joy.

She curls up next to me in the recliner.  I feel her heartbeat on my leg.  Amazing that I never took the time to appreciate the beating of one's heart.  It is the very essence of life, without a heartbeat we all cease to be.  I love the feeling now and am determined that she will always remain in my heart and our heartbeats will merge as one.

FIRST

The Last Heartbeat

By Gretchen Yost

Every time I listen to a heartbeat fade, I realize I’m at a precipice between worlds that few experience. A precious life is ending in my hands, by my hands. On this side of the veil, all eyes are on me and my stethoscope, ready for the word so that a different phase of grief can begin. This woman has been dreading this moment for so long. Bisbee was her father’s dog—as arthritic, ancient, and ill as he was before he passed and her only remaining connection to him. If I say “They are together again”—will that comfort her?

This man can’t be there and says a wailing goodbye to the cat before leaving the room. He never liked cats before, but this one stole his soul and loved camping and sunshine and chattering at ravens and sharing ice cream every Sunday night from his bowl as a treat. His wife stays for the whole process, box breathing, talking and holding and petting this frail orange tabby in her lap until the end.

This family can’t accept that their young pit bull full of energy will not, cannot survive the antifreeze he got into that has scorched his kidneys. Brutus wags his tail. The family priest is called and put on speaker phone for a prayer to God for a miracle. Isn’t it possible, Father? We wait for that miracle; they are not ready. I return in three days when they are ready even though Brutus will still wag when they kiss his dry nose.

The death of a pet is a sacred moment and I am invited in as a stranger of necessity for the most intimate of moments. I have crawled onto unmade beds of strangers in bathrobes surrounded by mounds of Kleenex. I have crouched into dog houses, under dining room tables and on bathroom tiles. I have knelt next to couches covered in pee pads for animal friends who have long been incontinent. I have hugged more crying people than a President in a warzone. I try to be invisible, a chameleon blending in to the grief and becoming what I’m needed to be. I’m quiet but still try to find comforting words to fill in the gaps of mourning and uncertainty like whiskey between ice cubes. I did not become a veterinarian for this. No one teaches you how to do this; instead you spend four years learning every possible way to prevent this. I cannot explain how a tenderhearted kid who was devastated by “Dumbo” “Charlotte’s Web” and “Old Yeller” grew into someone who felt compelled to offer home euthanasia, but here I am.

 

Death comes for us all. It is what all of the living beings on Earth have in common and nothing could be more natural, but of course, that is just logic. We are never ready or prepared for death, and certainly ending a life you have nurtured is not natural. Some reflect that saying goodbye to their pet is harder than any human death they’ve experienced. Some share stories of how their relationship with this animal was the only reason they were able to survive a tragedy, an illness, a divorce, a loss. Those of us lucky enough to have discovered the human-animal bond know the magic effect of a purring feline sleeping next to you or the joy-jolt of a dog running in happy circles just to see you. They accept us. They forgive us. They love us and we grow dependent upon them for our quality of life. Letting that go to spare them the suffering we know lies ahead is always a selfless decision.

That first phone call to me can be resolute and quick or it can be long. With some there is considerable time pondering the agonizing question “When do I know it’s time?” We talk about quality of life, about dignity and fear and mobility and independence and that amazing animal trait of living only in the present. Our animal friends do not lament the plans they had, regret things not done or mourn the thought of not seeing another fall with its bright colors. However, the harsh reality is that we are all programmed to live and to fight to live. We cannot will our bodies to die and an animal will not commit suicide. In the natural world this is not necessary as death comes often violently and painfully to the weak and ill. A natural death for them is not necessarily more humane.

When the day and hour comes, most have spent days preparing and saying goodbye. They think they cannot cry any more—but of course they do. Some have many stories to tell, photos and videos to show, and even painted portraits hanging on the wall. Some offer elaborate ceremonies of separation—blankets, cornmeal, incense, music, chocolate cakes, sirloin treats, bells of Bastet the goddess of cats. There is not a difference between poor and rich, between religious or atheist, between cat or dog or chicken or rat. Love is love is love and it is never greater than in the hour of separation. I am so grateful to see animals loved like this. Maybe that is why I am here.

I have the ability to render death and choose to do so. It is a mighty weight and a power I could argue should not be mine if not for the universal, sincere utterances of gratitude through snot and tears. What happens after our hearts stop beating? I am no closer to knowing the answer than when the unthinkable happened to Old Yeller. Personally I am counting on going to that warm light and when my eyes adjust there will be a welcoming committee of fur, barks, meows, and wags. My lifelong pets will be front of the line, but I hope the ones I have helped out of their failing bodies will trot over and give me a wink and a nudge and I’ll know this was all okay. I hope I pass from this world in the arms of the one who loves me most, in my home after a meal of my favorite food and someone telling me I was a good girl. That’s what I tell people when the heart stops and theirs keeps beating.