vituperation

I picked up the phone and dialed the vet’s office, already dreading what I’d have to say. Across the room from me, Spot sat hunched in the same cat bed he’d been in for the last twelve hours. Unable to find a comfortable position, he spent the night shifting around in the bed, occasionally tipping over because he lacked the strength to hold himself up.

I introduced myself when Peg — the senior vet tech — answered. “With Spot?” I added. “From a couple of weeks ago?”

“What’s up?”

“Spot’s had a setback. He stopped eating on Friday, and he’s lost over a pound since I had him there.” I took a deep breath. “I think it’s time to say goodbye.”

That, of course, was all I needed to say to ensure I wasn’t going to be able to talk properly any more. It’s easy to talk in the abstract about the need to put down a very sick pet, but saying it for real brings the gravity of the situation home.

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” she said. I heard her shuffling papers. “Can you bring him in at 8:30?”

I thought about it for a second. Robyn was at the pet store taking care of the kitties from the no-kill shelter where she volunteers, and had told me she could be home by nine. Even though she told me several times she would come with me, Spot was pretty obviously suffering, and she had also said she would understand if I wanted to get him taken care of as soon as possible.

“Yes,” I said, and got off the phone before I had to talk any more.

That 45 minutes was the longest of my life. I spent it sweet talking Spot, pacing, and reading the news. Time marched on, though, and it was finally time to go.

I lifted Spot off the cat bed and gingerly set him in the carrier. He looked a little alarmed, but he didn’t fight me. The drive sucked, because the closer we got, the more teary-eyed I became.

The younger vet-tech came right out and took us back to a room, then the older one came in. I explained how we thought Spot was improving, and then just completely stopped eating on Friday.

“I got him to drink a little tuna water, and some milk, but that’s all. He just sits in a bed and looks miserable. I think he’s having trouble swallowing now, because he makes a sort of smacking noise with his mouth and drool comes out. We lost a cat four years ago to diabetes, and he had the same look in his eyes before he died. You can just see it.”

I shut up, because my voice was breaking.

Spot was weighed — six pounds, six ounces — and his temperature taken. Because he was so cold, it took an especially long time. I shut up and tried to dry my eyes.

“I hear you have some problems with some beagles?” the older vet tech said. She smiled, and I thought it sweet of her to try to lighten things up some. Back on Thursday when the beagle showed up, I had called the vet’s office to discuss with the younger tech places I might look to find him a home.

“Just one,” I said. I told her the story of the malnourished beagle, and of our efforts to find him a home.

“He sounds like a sweetie,” she said.

“He is. He’s housebroken, and doesn’t get into things. He’s still sleeping a lot, though. He looks a hundred percent better already. He’s a good dog, but we’re just more cat people, and he’s freaking out all our cats.”

A rueful look crossed her face.

“My husband is going to kill me,” she said to the other tech, then turned back to me. “I rescue dogs like you rescue cats. We have one beagle, and my husband swears it’s the dumbest animal on the face of the earth. I’ll take the beagle and get him healthy again, then either keep him or find him a home.”

It felt like a two-ton weight had been lifted off me. I got an email over the weekend about a local rescue group, but I knew the dog would be living in something like a shelter if we took him there. We’d had offers from all over the country from people willing to take him if nothing panned out, but really wanted to try and keep it local if we could.

“Really?” I asked, then gushed thanks effusively.

“I may have to sleep in the doghouse with him for a few nights until my husband comes around, but yes. I’ll tell him it’s because it’s my birthday.”

She pulled the thermometer out and checked it.

“His temperature’s below normal. I thought he felt cool.”

She made some notes on Spot’s chart.

“Okay, then. I’ll go get things ready and get Dr. Patton.”

Both vet techs left the room.

I cupped Spot’s head in one hand and stroked it with the other, telling him what a good buddy he was. Outside the room, I could hear the older vet tech telling Dr. Patton first about Spot’s setback, then about the beagle. In a couple of minutes, they came in together.

Dr. Patton shook my hand and examined Spot, first listening to his heart then checking his eyes and mouth. When he looked up, his face bore a grave expression.

“I concur with your assessment,” he said. “Sometimes the best thing you can do as an owner is know when to let go.”

I nodded, because I couldn’t talk.

“Do you want to wait outside until it’s over?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“I owe it to him,” I said.

He nodded and checked Spot’s right front leg, where they’d shaved it two weeks ago to draw blood, and made sure the vein looked good. Then he tied off a tourniquet up near the shoulder and periodically checked the vein until it was raised up with blood. Turning, he fetched a syringe filled with a pale blue liquid from the counter behind him and very delicately inserted the needle into Spot’s leg. He loosened the tourniquet.

I knelt down so I was face to face with Spot and lifted his head with both hands.

“You’re a good buddy,” I whispered.

The doctor pulled on the syringe, and I saw a cloud of red erupt into the blue liquid. Then he slowly depressed the plunger, and I held Spot’s head and whispered to him until it was over.

When he was gone, the vet and senior tech stayed in the room with me while I composed myself and told them how Spot had shown up as a stray all those years ago, how I’d worked for a week trying to pet him and then the instant I could I threw him into a carrier and took him to the vet to get shots and neutered.

We folded his body in a towel so I could bring him home to bury him. Out front, as I was paying, I made plans with the senior vet tech to bring the beagle back at 1:30 so she could get him his annual checkup and set up a neutering for tomorrow morning.

I can’t help but be amazed at how everything worked out. I try my best not to anthropomorphize our kitties, but it sure seems like Spot held out just long enough to ensure a good home for the dog.

From better days.