On the death of a good friend
I walked out of the vet’s office carrying his leash and collar.
I had forgotten how much it hurt.
How much it always hurts. In the car, I had told him that we were going to the doctor’s, that she would make him feel better, and that he would get a treat when we got home.
I scratched behind his ears and patted his head. He definitely needed a trim.
“You’re going to Candi on Thursday,” I said to him. “It’s your spa day.”
Rupert never came home. It came totally out of the blue. I wasn’t at all prepared for what happened last Monday morning.
On Saturday, he had been his happy self — jumping on my bed eager for breakfast, overseeing the traffic on Monaghan Road from his window seat, shaking and tossing “Owlie,” his favourite stuffy.
He curled up on his bed, or on the sofa, or on my lap, intently watching me eat so he could “prewash” the dishes.
On Sunday, he didn’t eat or drink all day.
He was lethargic and seemed to struggle to get comfortable.
He went on his walk with Melissa that early evening. But there were no “zoomies” when he came in as there always were.
He went up to bed with me that night and stayed snuggled up beside me longer than usual. (He never slept with me although I told him he was welcome. Instead, he always went downstairs to his own bed.)
He came back upstairs in the morning but had no interest in the belly-rubs he loved.
He ignored his breakfast, even the strips of chicken he usually insisted upon. His water bowl was still full.
The chicken had been replaced by pure pumpkin the last few days because he had been straining to poop.
Pumpkin usually cures that problem. He loved the pumpkin, but it didn’t solve the problem.
I called the vet’s office first thing, and they took us right away.
When I got his collar and leash, he just lay on his window seat rather than dance in front of me, excited at the prospect of a walk or a car ride.
But he always tried to please, so dutifully followed behind me as we walked to the car.
In the waiting room, he sat beside me on the bench like the little gentleman my Aunt Min said he was the first time they met seven years ago.
In the vet’s office, he hid under a chair.
The vet gently explored his body then took him out of the office for a closer examination.
“Sylvia, it is not good news,” she told me when she came back alone.
It was in fact the worst news. Rupert had a massive tumour on his liver. The options were grim.
Even if they could operate, there was absolutely no guarantee of success.
The operation could be brutal, including possibly breaking his rib cage.
“If Rupert were my dog, I would let him go,” she said compassionately.
I was stunned. My smart, gentle, sweet, loving little Rupert. I had promised him everything would be all right.
In the end, you can’t let a being you love to suffer in order to satisfy your need for them.