Kelly Patrice Collins, cpsa     Colored Pencil Artist

I finally took Preston in to see his veterinarian. I realized how long it had been since we had seen her when it turned out that she was no longer working where I expected her to be. Fortunately, the receptionist did give me the name of her new clinic when I asked.

 

So, I brought him in to the new clinic, which was also the old clinic that I had started with when I had Filbert. It was also the emergency vet, so they already had many of Preston’s records. When we were taken into the room, the assistant took all of the information about Preston’s seizure and general health. Then she took a blood sample and disappeared.

 

When Dr. Parker (Preston’s usual vet) came into the room, her first words were: “phenol barbital.”

 

I didn’t really like the sound of that. It reminded me of two times when I had to deal with phenol while working in a DNA laboratory, one which burned me and one which burned my assistant. Not the same thing, of course, but it set off bells in my head.

 

“It’s really quite safe,” she assured me when she saw the frown on my face.

 

I still wasn’t sure. I just didn’t want to add something that may not be good to his already messed up chemistry.

 

“I’ll think about it,” I said.

 

“I can send you home with some Valium,” Dr. Parker said, “At least he won’t have to go through another night like that one.”

 

She did sell me on some extra blood tests.

 

Dr. Parker sent me home with a syringe of diazepam (valium) with instructions to administer it anally as ‘he would probably bite me if I tried to administer it through his mouth.”

 

Sure, I thought. Just TRY that anally part.

 

Nothing happened for a few days. Things seemed nearly back to the “new” normal of Preston being the invalid. The vet didn’t call back about the blood tests so I assumed they were good. Then, she did.

 

The glucose levels were extremely low. White blood cells were 32,000 – almost double the 13,000 – 17,000 normal range. Eosonophils were high.

 

What next?

 

Another blood test and an ultrasound.

 

So, we took him in for an ultrasound with the promise that they would really try to do it without any sedation (Preston was pretty good about these kinds of things). In the end, they did it just fine without sedation.

 

They took him into the back rooms of that large veterinary hospital with the promise that they would call me the SECOND he was out of any harm and I could pick him up as soon as possible after that.

 

So. I waited.

 

I sat anxiously by the telephone.

 

Finally, they called and said that I could pick Preston up. I was there as quickly as possible (within the realm of speed limits).

 

One side of his stomach was shaven. It was awful! To take away that beautiful part of that beautiful dog!! Well, really I didn’t care.

 

It was just a part of that thing that I heard so much on the trail as Preston lumbered behind: “And then comes the OLD dog.”

 

Preston was never old to me. I knew his spirit. Now, he really looked like the OLD dog.

 

But, such was it. The vet who had overseen the ultrasound and had done the initial reading called me and said that she couldn’t see anything major except that the urinary bladder was thickened.

 

“What does that mean?” I asked.

 

“It just means that there is a chronic infection.”

 

“Is there anything else?” I asked.

 

“No, and I can’t completely verify that until the radiologist looks at the films.” 

 

And, again, I waited.

 

Life went on as was normal in the previous few months. Preston became a little weaker although we were giving him his antibiotics for whatever infection he had. He loved to hang out in the Pet House and sleep all day and, occasionally, wake up and sniff around. He seemed perfectly happy although I know that wasn’t really what he wanted (just like all of us as we get older).

 

One night, I could see a seizure beginning again. I immediately ran to my bathroom and grabbed the Valium syringe.  I came back and he wasn’t really full throttle yet. I started looking for his anus under all that fur and tail.

 

‘Shit,’ I thought. There was no way. So I tried to open his mouth and, just as predicted, he bit me (not really hard, though). I then just pulled the side of his lips back and found a notch in between his teeth and shoved the syringe in and pushed.

 

He immediately recoiled and shook his head. It wasn’t very tasty. He then lay down and I started to pet him in reassurance once again.

 

It seemed like hours, but eventually he fell asleep. I watched him for a long time, but then decided he was going to be okay and crawled back into bed.

 

Again. The next morning, it was as if nothing had happened. He woke up. He went to the top of the stairs and waited for either Paul or I to help him down, and then we went for our little walk after coffee.

 

A few days went by uneventfully. Then, one morning, we went off to the forest as we did every day. Preston seemed perfectly fine on the way. He was pretty quiet these days and didn’t bark when Ursus did, but he was aware.

 

We off-loaded the dogs and they walked their separate ways. It only took a few steps until the back end of Preston gave way. His rear end fell to the ground. He looked up to me helplessly. I attempted to help him up, but there was seemingly no connection between his mind and his hind end.

 

It was awful.

 

People who didn’t know us walked by with that understanding and sympathetic look.

 

“No!!!” I thought, “You don’t understand!! This is the miracle dog!! The Stealth Dog!!”

 

But, it was true. He was there flopping on the ground without any control.

 

My eyes teared up. Paul watched the scene unfold and eventually took Preston by the collar and, in his authoritative way, pulled Preston to his feet, back to the car, and lifted him in.

 

I crawled into the passenger seat and Ursus jumped into the back. The walk was over.

 

By the time we got home, Preston was back to his ‘new normal’. He wolfed down his breakfast– after an impressive (for the moment) breakfast dance.

 

Then he crawled up onto “his” couch and fell into the deep sleep that only dogs that are old and/or hard of hearing can fall into.

 

We took him for our little walk for a few days and he was fine. One day, we walked right up the hill where we had usually turned around. I made us all turn around. Once again, Preston lost control of his rear end and it fell to the ground. He kept pulling with his front feet, but those back limbs just would not cooperate.

 

I eased him back to the car. I held his collar while he walked to give him leverage. He did it. Very slowly. Eventually, after many stops, we made it.

 

The next day or so, we went back. Again, Preston had all of his wits about him on the way and then, once we hit the path, he walked about 100 feet and fell.

 

This was the third time, although in my head I wasn’t really counting. I just knew that this was it.

 

We eased him back to the car again. When we got home, I called my vet. She happened to be on vacation at that time, but I left a message for her to call me ASAP about coming to my house for an euthanasia.

 

There was no return call. Preston seemed to look worse. He was sleeping on his couch and only getting up when he really had to pee. It wasn’t often, like I would expect with a urinary tract infection.

 

Another day went by. We took Preston to Mac Forest in the morning. He seemed fine. Then we got about 100 yards from the starting point of the trail. He fell again. He was dazed and confused. Not quite like he had been in the middle of a seizure, but he looked lost.

 

Paul and I escorted and lifted him back into the car. Once again he seemed tired, but fine.

 

When we got home I was in a panic. In my head, something was really wrong. I had no real idea what it was. The cursory information that I got from the veterinarian was that there was nothing outstanding in his ultrasounds, but there was a lot going on in his bloodwork.

 

That day I decided it was time. To this day I feel overwhelmingly guilty. I don’t know if I made the right call.

 

When Filbert had prostate cancer, even as a neutered dog, I was confident that if we paid the money for his chemotherapy and radiation therapy that he would not only survive, but be a hero to all. Fil even actually LOVED the visits to the oncologist in Beaverton, 100 miles from home. Eventually, the treatments stopped and Fil went quickly downhill until he finally had to be euthanized two weeks after the treatments stopped.

 

We had spent a lot of time and money. We had put Filbert through many things that eventually didn’t buy him any time of meaning.

 

And that is why I decided not to put Preston through anything like that.

 

I called Dr. Parker. She was on vacation but was checking her messages. I really decided that it was time to send Preston to his final landing.

 

No one called back. I called them and they gave me the name of a traveling vet whose name I trusted. I called her. There was only an answering machine. There I was just waiting for a return call from…ANYONE!!

 

Two days passed and Preston was just hanging in. Finally, my phone rang and it was from the travelling vet.

 

And finally, we set up a time for Saturday morning.

 

God.

 

The day before the deed, Preston looked like his old self. He even walked in Mac Forest for an hour and not once did his back legs give out. He tripped a couple times, but that was it.

 

We came home and he got excited and danced around for his food, just like he always had. I began wondering if I was doing the right thing.

 

I had planned to have the euthanasia done this day (until I found that the vet couldn’t do it). I swear. Preston was hanging around like he was waiting for it. I set up camp right next to him. He only got up when he needed to pee.  I helped him out the back door and then back inside.

 

So, I spent the entire day with him, neither of us doing anything except laying there.

 

I had bought three big steaks, a package of marrow bones, and a cake for him (and Ursus).

 

That evening, Paul grilled up the steaks and a Gimme Lean patty that I had made to look like a steak for myself. Paul and I ate our dinner and then gave each of the dogs pieces of their steak. I don’t think they even chewed.

 

Afterward, Paul brought out the bones. He gave one to each of the dogs. We watched them as they licked the marrow from the middle. As soon as the marrow was gone, Paul grabbed it from them. Ursus was fine with that because he had been conditioned since a puppy. Preston looked like he just might bite Paul’s hand off until Paul handed him another one. Ursus got another one, too.

 

“Oh, in that case, I’ll let you keep your hand,” thought Preston.

 

The next morning I woke up from a fitful night. I did everything in the routine way that I always do, but it felt like a dream. Preston seemed okay. We took him to a park that was closer to the house for his final walk. He seemed fine. When we decided it was time to go back home, Preston even tried to go farther.

 

I could not help but think: Am I doing the right thing?

 

When we got home, I gave Preston a big piece of the cake that we had never actually gotten to the night before. I gave Ursus a tiny slice, just to be fair. After he had finished his cake, Preston went into the living room and lay down on the floor.

 

I went and lay down beside him. Paul sat in “his” chair. We could hear the clock ticking as we all waited for the moment.

 

Am I doing the right thing?? It’s not like Preston had signed a paper telling us it was what he wanted. Maybe it wasn’t what he wanted. Maybe he would rather have stayed until his body fell apart completely.

 

As I stroked his back, I saw that his lower eyelid all of a sudden began drooping. It had the look of a Bassett Hound. I then wondered if he was having some reaction to all of the sugar in the cake. Part of his problem had been with blood sugar.