An End of Winter Tale

On this beautiful day of the vernal equinox - that is to say, the first day of spring - I had hoped to be able to wax joyful about the beauties of the season, but instead I find that what I want, in fact actually need to write about is, instead, what happened at the closing of the last day of winter.

Occasionally there wanders through the clinic door a pet among hundreds which, for some reason or other, becomes very dear to me. Mind you, I enjoy most of my patients, even a fair share of the grumpy ones, but these elect few - I call them "my Feel-Good Patients" - are cats or dogs for whom I almost feel compelled to actually pay their owners because of the sheer bliss that envelopes me when I'm in their presence. It's better than a therapy session. Are they Old Souls? The reincarnation of past pets, or even humans, that I once loved? I'll never know, but I'll tell you this -to me, as well as to their owners, they are special.

There was Terra Wright the old female boxer who could have given humans lessons on how to be WalMart greeters; she would stand in my waiting room wagging her stub-tipped rump and displaying a grin that seemed to split her head in half, thrilled to pieces that other patients and their humans were acknowledging her. She was cheerful to the last, even when that grin displayed the horrible oral tumor that refused to be completely removed despite numerous surgeries.

There was Max Scott, the huge, rumbling tiger cat who lay graciously on my exam table like it was his personal throne, purring with pleasure even as I palpated the cancerous mass over his shoulders that would ultimately take his life.

There was Babe Fuller, the boisterous Doberman girl who succeeded ladylike Doberman Boots and was nonetheless the pride and joy of her sometimes exasperated owner - who had been certain no dog on the planet could have replaced Boots, until he met Babe.

And then there was Morgan.

Personal friends among the readers of this post will of course remember the dreadful week last May when we lost Pete, our 6 year old yellow lab, to intestinal cancer. Pete was my dog-in-a-million, my best canine friend who'd seen me through some mighty tough times, and in the words of a song my husband wrote, been "my angel, my confidante and clown." We were devastated when he became ill, and many clients, among them Morgan's owners, grieved with us at his passing. Morgan and Pete had been young labs together, rowdily socializing when their paths crossed at the clinic and - maybe - teaching each other some manners in the process. Pete liked blondes, and Morgan was a feminine little yellow retriever, with deep dark eyes that squinted whenever she was gazing happily into your face, which was pretty much all the time.

About a month ago Morgan's owners, John and Angie Carr, brought her in to the clinic for a checkup, noting that she had been "vomiting off and on." The Carrs never ignored anything to do with Morgan's health, because we had dealt with chronic allergy issues over the years and they were always quick to bring her in to see me if there was something wrong. Morgan looked good, sitting at attention as always when I came into the room, wagging happily and grinning her doggy grin, fixing her eyes as usual on mine, her seasonal bandanna tied stylishly around her neck. She always made me feel like she was looking into my soul. I gave her a hug - you couldn't NOT hug Morgan - and checked her out. "It's probably something simple to do with her allergies," I said, "but let's do some baseline bloodwork since she's 'middle aged' now and be sure nothing major is going on."


And that is when the nightmare started. I felt my heart dropping as I looked at the printout of her bloodwork. Crap. Oh, crap. She was in kidney failure. Not borderline, not "maybe she's a little dehydrated from the vomiting". Full blown, evil, ugly, goddamit-all-to-hell kidney failure.

I still grasped at straws. We did a urinalysis and it confirmed the worst. We sent the urine off to our reference lab in case there was some freak error in the results. No error. We started palliative treatment for kidney disease - restricted protein diets, neutraceuticals to promote kidney function - and consulted our local specialist, who went out of his way to keep up with the case, even making phone calls to HIS colleagues to try and confirm what we knew was happening: Morgan's immune system was killing her kidneys, and that was killing her.

Despite the phenomenally high numbers indicating the rapidly progressing deterioration of her kidneys, Morgan dismayed all her medical providers by "acting good." Angie would report that she seemed a little tired at times but was still happy, "still Morgan." Until last week, when she called me in tears. We were down to some last-ditch, do-or-die treatments, heavy doses of steroids, and they weren't working. "She isn't feeling good now," Angie told me and asked, "how will we know?"

I'm asked that a lot, and yet I never feel like I've answered that question well. Sometimes, if I know the clients, I can say, "you'll have to tell me. You live with your pet, and I only see her when she's stressed or ill." Other times it's "well, when she has more bad days than good days, it's probably time." Sometimes - in all honesty - I say, "look, I'm the worst putter-offer there is. I've had to go to my Mom, even after all this time as a vet, and ask her if I'm doing the right thing, when it's one of my own pets." The bottom line is there's no easy answer, and there are almost always moments of uncertainty. As grieviously ill as Morgan was becoming, I had to say there was "no bad time."

The whole sickening experience was doubly bad for me because it was like losing Pete all over again - a relatively young yellow lab, an insidiously progressing illness - oh, God. I knew exactly how awful the end of this winter was for the Carrs, because I'd been through the same thing myself not quite a year ago. Dammit, dammit, dammit.

Last night at the beginning of evening office hours, the call came that I'd been dreading all week. Angie said it "was time." We scheduled the Carrs' appointment last, and the evening passed all too quickly for me, knowing that was hanging over my head. I stepped into the exam room and there sat Morgan, squinting her happy greeting at me. She looked a little rough, but not nearly as bad as I'd imagined. I guess her soul was shining through, and she was still beautiful little Morgan. I dropped to my knees and hugged her. How could you NOT hug Morgan? I could feel her body swaying with the wagging of her tail. I whispered that I was sorry she was so sick, and told her that she would soon feel better, and that Pete was waiting to play with her again.

Have you seen the recent hit movie Avatar? In it, the tall blue Na'avi, natives of the planet in danger, are able to unite their consciousness with that of other life forms in nature by means of a connection in the end of their long braided hair. We don't use our hair - but I know where the place of connection is in Labrador Retrievers - it's that sloping, dished-out concavity between their eyes. You lay your cheek right there, close your eyes, breathe. It doesn't matter if the tears you shed roll down across their muzzle - they don't mind. Pete never minded. Morgan didn't mind. Did she know what was up? How could I bear to face her, knowing I was about to end her life? And she had always trusted me. Can you imagine how hard moments like these are for me, knowing as you may how I feel about these lovely creatures, precious pets, treasured friends?

And yet....and yet, I wouldn't have it any other way. Somehow it's a privilege to be there for a family at times like these, knowing they trust me to walk them through this final step in a pets life as - in so many lucky cases - I have been able to walk them successfully through all the other steps, right from the squirmy, wiggly little puppy and kitten beginnings.

And so I brace myself one more time to do the task that is asked of me. I will tell you that with Morgan the technical aspects of the act went as perfectly I could have wanted. Morgan went peacefully to sleep in the arms of her family, and we all cried and hugged each other and said goodbye. She will be cremated and her ashes returned to her family, and somewhere out there I want to believe a star is burning a little brighter with the light from Morgan's beautiful , twinkling eyes.

I pulled myself together to make a housecall and vaccinate the crew of pets belonging to dear friends who understood how I felt, which helped, even though the playing of Blue Oyster Cult's song "Don't Fear The Reaper" on the truck radio as I arrived at their house caused me to dissolve into tears again.

So today when I got up, prepared to greet spring in all its glory, I went for my walk and in passing Pete's grave wept some more, knowing this morning when the Carrs awoke, their house was silent - no ear-flapping, no heavy, hah-hah-hah panting that researchers tell us is the equivalent of laughter in a dog, no toenails ticking along the floor. No smiling Morgan waiting to help them through the day with all the enthusiasm that a lab is capable of sharing with her beloved people. But perhaps there is the consolation of knowing that she is not sick any more, and that no matter where she is, she will always be their special dog.

Out here along my walking trail, the buds are swelling on the bushes, and soon the green mist of infant foliage will fill the woods. The daffodils are nearly ready to bloom. For the rest of my life, these lovely spring flowers will remind me of that sprightly, wonderful, Feel-Good yellow dog who always made me smile. Rest easy, Morgan, and give Pete a kiss from me.