Coffee heat rising

Au Revoir, Little Cassie

It was time. It was definitely time.

Today my sick little dog was no better and indeed seemed worse than ever before. For the past several days, she not only hasn’t been able to walk more than a couple of steps, most of the time she couldn’t stand up at all. If you picked her up and set her on her feet, her legs would collapse beneath her. So the decision was made to assist her off this mortal coil. The vet’s staff set today as The Day and 3:40 p.m. as The Hour.

Meanwhile, some time back I’d volunteered to drive some friends out to Sun City to visit a fellow choir member who recently received a diagnosis that is not actually dire but is indeed damn scary. As I was trying to figure how I was going to get out there, go to lunch, herd up my passengers, deliver them back to the church, and return to the Funny Farm in time to snatch up the dog and fly across the city to the vet’s office, one of our dauntless leaders suggested someone else could help drive and I should drive out there in my car, park at the restaurant, and take off at a timely moment.

This worked well.

Back at the house, Cassie was about the same as she was when I left a few hours earlier: inert. Immobile. But still breathing. She’d been in a daze for the past five days, apparently confused about where she is and why she’s here…when she’s conscious enough to consider such cosmic questions. She’d been experiencing violent seizures, mostly focused in the hind hips and legs. By yesterday they were so drastic they would make her yelp, apparently in pain. I thought of them as convulsions, and when I described them to the vet this afternoon saying I didn’t know whether to call them spasms or convulsions, she said “convulsion” was the right term.

So I shovel her into the car and schlep her across the city to the veterinarian’s office. Carried her through the door and was ushered into an examination room, where we laid her on a thick folded-up blanket on the table.

The poor little dog was so sick and so stunned that she literally did not move. That is not an exaggeration: when laid down, she did not move again. It’s possible that she was unconscious.

The vet was shocked: “This is not what I expected to happen,” she said.

Yeah. Well, none of us did.

I said if she had any ideas that might help, I’d be happy to try them. She agreed, after examining the dog, that it was time to put her to sleep. She did not think the problem was Cushing’s: she said this was not what Cushing’s looks like. But she said when a dog just lays inert like that — “lateral,” as she put it — it’s a bad sign.

I’ve had several dogs and cats euthanized, but have never watched the process. Emotionally, that has seemed way beyond the pale. The owner’s presence now being all the rage, though, I felt pressured to be there. And it was interesting.

First, it was interesting because it was a great deal less traumatic for the dog than I imagined. Nontraumatic in the case of a dog that seems almost comatose to begin with, at any rate. First the vet tranquilized her with a drug that took about 15 minutes to take effect. Still Cassie didn’t close her eyes, which made me suspect that she was barely conscious — if conscious at all — when I brought her in. Then the vet injected a few cc’s of a pink liquid, which seemed to cause no outward reaction in the dog. Within minutes — seconds, really — it stopped the breathing and the heartbeat. And the dog was gone: apparently with no suffering at all.

Dogs, it develops, often die with their eyes open. She never blinked from the time I carried her into the office to the time she shuffled off this mortal coil. And that, too, led me to suspect that she was as close to unconscious as she could get without being in a coma. Today for the first time she turned down food: she surely was as nigh unto death as she was going to get without actually dying.

So this was a mercy for her and for me.

Second item of interest: the vet remained curious as to what had really happened to the dog. I refrained from saying I thought her colleague on the other side of the city, over in the Arcadia district, had fucked up by misdiagnosing her with Valley Fever — which she did not then have and never did have — and then putting her on fluconazole while she was being dosed with prednisone. Vet palpitated the corpse and did find a large mass on the left side, near the kidneys and adrenals.

In dogs, about half of adrenal tumors (which are common) are benign, leaving half to be malignant. I suggested that we simply lost the draw, and that she actually had cancer. She thought that was very likely. And indeed, the symptoms of adrenal gland malignancy are very similar to those Cassie evinced over the past 4½ months.

That’s right. This has gone on for four and a half months.

During that time, about all I’ve done is care for and clean up after the little dog.

Afternoon was shading into evening and the sky was threatening rain by the time I rolled into the garage.

Flew in the house, grabbed Ruby’s harness, collar, and leash, and she and I shot out of the house. In the past 4½ months, Ruby (and I) have had two full-length doggy-walks — maybe three at the outside. Trying to sneak her out of the house without upsetting Cassie was more than I could cope with on top of all the other happenings. So we waited.

After a fast mile, we shot back in the house. I fed the new Queen of the Universe and then threw all the serapes that protect my bedding from dog hair into the washer. Had to run them through on hot twice to get out the parfum de sick dog. Plucked the nine pee pads from the floor and threw them in the trash. Pulled the pee pads that underlay the serapes off the bed. Found more pee pads discarded in various trash cans. Dragged these out to the trash. Decided against cleaning the floor this evening: too damn tired. Also, it’s going to rain and so it will take longer than one would like for the floors to dry. Found a can of black bean soup: dinner, accompanied by a bourbon & water.

Talked to friends on the phone; emailed friends; talked to son on phone. Threw the dog-bed blankets in the washer and then the dryer.

And now am dead exhausted.

My beautiful little dog. One of the two finest dogs I’ve ever had.

16 thoughts on “Au Revoir, Little Cassie”

  1. I’ve always heard that the only bad thing about dogs is that they don’t live long enough. Thank you for all the funny, sad, great posts you’ve had about Cassie. We were with our shih tzu a couple of years when he had to be euthanized. I was apprehensive about it, but I will always be there if we have to do it in the future. We held and petted him, and he was never frightened, completely pain free.

    • Yah, they don’t live long enough, that’s for sure. But she lived to a pretty good age for a dog, and she was vibrantly healthy right up to the end. She certainly wasn’t any younger than 12, but the vet thinks she was more like 13. And I think she had a happy life, reigning peacefully enough over the universe.

  2. I’m so sorry. It’s never easy letting a loved one go, but I think you’re right that it was time. Peace and comfort to you and Ruby.

  3. I’m so sorry for your loss. You’ve been a wonderful human for Cassie, and she was lucky to have you. I don’t think I’ve ever commented before, but I’ve had your blog in my feed reader for a couple years and I’ve been following closely over the last few months.

  4. “There’s a common misconception that there’s not enough love in the world. In fact, God created too much love – oceans of it, so much that its abundance threatens its value, cheapening it. So God created dogs. Dogs are love sponges, sucking up all the excess love in the world. To release this love when it’s needed, just hug a dog tight. The love comes gushing out, in licks and kisses.”

    RIP Cassie.

  5. My condolences, FaM. I know what it’s like to experience the decline of a beloved dog. With every new health issue, I question whether it’s her time. When they stop eating, it is a clear sign that they are ready to go. You did everything possible for Cassie, and I hope you take some small amount of consolation from that.

    • The eating thing is especially true of corgis. The corgi lives to eat. When a corgi goes off its feed, you know something dire is wrong.

  6. I’m so sorry for your loss – even though you saw it coming and were prepared, it’s still a big loss. Cassie was lucky to have you as her person – right up to the end when you did what was needed to help her through to the Rainbow Bridge.

    I look forward to hearing about your upcoming fun convincing Ruby that she is not actually alpha of the household 😀

    • {chortle!} With a corgi, there’s really no convincing of that concept. 😀 As we scribble, she’s ordering me to get off my tuchus and fetch her a doggy treat.

  7. Bless you and the patience you have shown during Cassie’s last months. Never easy to decide to part company with a pet but it is very often the most kindest thing to do. I’m glad you stayed with her to the end. That was the right thing to do and it takes some guts.

    • Thanks. Poor little gal was really at the end of the line by the time we finally gave up. But for the other 12 years of her life, she had a mighty good time. 😉

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