Not Ready to Say Goodbye

I remember it like it was yesterday. She was the tiniest puppy with silky-soft, pointy ears and the cutest button nose, and she was supposed to be an Australian Shepherd mix about 7 weeks old. And the moment we saw Abbie, she stole our hearts. We couldn't write the check for her adoption fee fast enough. 

We had stalked the Forsyth County Animal Control website for weeks, even completing the adoption application before we found the perfect companion for Elmo, our blind Basset hound. After we found out that our other Basset, Duchess' chest tumor was inoperable, we knew we had to prepare for the day when she was no longer with us, and it seemed smarter to introduce a new family member before the inevitable happened. 

Boy, did that not go according to the plan! Still, although the sequence of events was not as planned, adopting Abbie-Dabbie was one of the best things we could have done. She proved to be a firecracker from the start, quickly showing her Holy Terrier parentage. She and Elmo became best buds, although Duchess was not amused. Abs took on the role of Hall Monitor, making sure everyone (2-legged as well as 4–legged) towed her line. From the time she found her voice (ironically in K9 Training class, where she was supposed to keep it to herself), she had this guttural growl that led to a take-a-step-back-buddy bark. Inside, she was a big ol' marshmallow, although most people never saw that side of her.

Her adoption eventually led to Winston's joining the family from Forsyth, and since they were both 2013 babies, we thought we could enjoy 10-12 years with A and W in residence. 

Again, things have not gone according to the plan. 

We had to take Ab's to the Eastside Emergency Animal Medical Center yesterday, as her tummy had become distended and enlarged...seemingly overnight. This was all the more worrying since she hadn't been eating properly for a couple of weeks, and she had begun to vomit yellow bile. At first, we had explained away the symptoms by attributing them to the stress brought on by our move...or by the multitude of recent thunderstorms (which terrified our little terrier)...or by the fireworks over the Fourth. But the tummy issues could not be explained away. 

The X-ray showed a huge white mass in her belly, which the ER vet thought might be a tumor in her spleen. Although stunned, we were able to participate in the planning process for her care: she would stay overnight at Eastside, getting IV fluids and pain meds. Since Abbie had the well-earned reputation (first noted by Dr. Barker, her NC vet) of being "stoic," it was difficult to tell that she was in terrible pain. It was easy to see that she was lethargic, though. If all was well, she would undergo a splenectomy when the surgeon arrived Monday morning. We kissed her goodbye as Marian the Terrific Tech took her back.

On Monday morning, we had several telephone conversations with the vet surgeon who wanted to make sure we understood what would be happening. And she assured us she would call before noon to let us know how things were going.

I knew the second I answered Dr. H's. call at 11:30 that her news was not good, but I wasn't prepared for the full gut-punch: a massive tumor had invaded multiple organs, and there was nothing that could be done. The decision was made for us, and the tears started to flow in buckets. It is always difficult for pet parents to make the hard choice to let a fur baby cross the rainbow bridge, but it is exceptionally wrenching to have to say goodbye way too soon.

Abbie-girl, you were loved and you are missed. 

The Long Goodbye

Once we became a multi-dog household, I began to count noses. It began with one-two: first for Barnie and Bea, later followed by Beau and Belle, then Boots and Tippy, and finally Duchess and Gus. When Elmo joined Duchess and Gus, I had to learn to count all the way up to three. One-two-three-four began when first grand-dog Charley adopted Missy M; we dropped back to one-two-three for a bit in 2007 until Ella Rae came along to cheer M up. When Dixie arrived in their house and would come for a visit, we hit the high water mark: one-two-three-four-five.

So, since the grand-dogs are here for Spring break, I got up this morning as I usually do, counting snouts: one-two-three-four...and then I remembered I had to stop. For Belle Bea Boots, Duchess of Dacula, crossed over the Rainbow Bridge yesterday, following a lengthy roller-coaster battle with cancer.

She had an amazingly long run for a Basset, whose lifespan is typically quoted at 10-12 years, living to a ripe, old age of  14 1/4 years. Even more amazing when you pause to consider that she has been on the downhill slope for nearly 5 years.

To begin her story, let's return to the Holiday Season of 2000, when we were still grieving over the death of Boots, who lost her battle with kidney disease at Thanksgiving. Missy M returned to her final semester of her Senior year at Mississippi University for Women in January, and I remember being doubly-sad that week.

Until...

We got a phone call from our sweet daughter, telling us she had seen an ad for a litter of Basset puppies on the school's list serv. Did we want her to go look at them? Now, we all know there is no such thing as just "go look at them" when we are talking about puppies...you better be prepared to come home with one, hadn't you? Mr. T's only instruction was "get a boy dog, please." I think he was weary of being the only member of our little family with a Y chromosome.

Anyway, M took a friend to see the litter, and they fell for the tiniest one of the bunch...who was also the only female. She brought her home to Dacula that weekend, and somewhere on the long trip from Mississippi to Georgia the runt of the litter gained a regal name: Duchess. When I sent in her AKC papers, I named her to honor the memory of those ones who had gone on: Belle Bea Boots, Duchess of Dacula.

Because Duchess was with us for so many years, we have mountains of memories. Like of how she teethed on a brick on the fireplace hearth. And how she used to get so excited when she heard her first boyfriend, Willie, as he barked when he went by on his daily walks behind our house in Dacula. How she bonded with Mr. T, who shared his home office with her for the first 8 months in residence.

How she loved walking to the mailbox to meet up with Flash, her Florida boyfriend...and how she stood at the back of the pool cage to bark at the cows in the Kissimmee pasture-land behind our house. How she said "I don't think so! when introduced to the Chip (or was it Dale) character at Disney's Animal Kingdom.

How she could always manage to put the brakes on full-stop and walk right out of her collar...and run faster than you could imagine anything on such short legs could go. And how she always thought she was a lap dog...even when she topped out at 60+ pounds.

Going for a walk with Duchess brought to mind how it must be when the Queen of England takes a ride in the countryside. If she could have managed that little wrist-wave, I'm sure she would have used it. Whenever she spotted another person, Duchess was certain s/he was coming just to see her...and she would wiggle-walk toward the on-coming subject and present her belly for a rub. OK, so maybe the Queen doesn't do that last part.

Duchess was pretty much a by-the-book Basset: "A calm pet that enjoys and needs human companionship. Relative to its size, it's the heaviest boned dog of any breed. Its deep, rolling bark can be amusing. This is a serene and well-behaved dog, but if it's spoiled it can become stubborn."

Did they say "human companionship? Yes, Duchess loved "her people." Other dogs? Not so much. She tolerated Gus, who we adopted thinking they would make great playmates. Not really. Most of the time, Duchess looked at him like she was just about to say "when are you coming to your senses and taking him back?"

When Elmo arrived, she was mostly indifferent...allowing the boyz to be boyz together. As the canine population of her world changed over the last few years, she simply adopted the attitude: "hey, I was here first. Deal with it."

Did they say stubborn if spoiled?  You better believe it...on both counts! She marched to her own drummer...and she typically expected all the rest of us to do likewise. Breakfast was to be served within 15 minutes of her sashaying into the kitchen. Dinner was to be at 6:00 on the dot. Oh, and there were expectations that whenever she...or anyone, for that matter...went outside and came back in there would be treats...plural. And there had better be water in each and every water bowl around.

There were some "bad" breed traits she had also: frequent ear infections, skin allergies, and skin tumors known as lipomas, which are normally benign fatty-tissue tumors. She endured several surgeries to remove multiple "lumps and bumps" over the years earning her the nickname "Duche$$."

Then in 2010, she was diagnosed with an infiltrative lipoma (one between her front legs that had grown into the surrounding muscle tissue) and another liposarcoma (the malignant form of skin tumor). Both of these were inoperable, meaning it was just a matter of time. [Read more about lipomas in dogs here, where they even have a picture of a dog with a lipoma on its chest, just like Duchess had: http://www.vetsurgerycentral.com/oncology_lipoma.html ]

As in life, Duchess set her own schedule for death. She knocked on the door on more than one occasion, prompting us into anticipatory action (regular readers might recall that is how we adopted Abbie, back in 2013). When she could no longer manage to get her back legs to follow her front legs up onto the sofa or bed or into her favorite chair (AKA: Mr. T's morning room chair), she simply began to tell us what to do when. We called this assistance The Butt Lift. Woof! became the Basset equivalent of "I said NOW!"

But, for the past week or so, things were steadily going downhill for the old girl. She stopped eating for a couple of days, followed by a few days of half-rations, only to return to not eating. Yesterday, we knew the time had arrived when neither of us could get her to take her pain meds, even though she was in obvious pain. So, we did the hardest job a pet parent must do: made the decision to make that long, sad trip to the Animal Emergency Hospital.

So, goodbye Missy D...Big Girl...the D-girl. We will miss you mightily. You gave us plenty of time to prepare for your departure, but we will still feel a hollow place in our hearts created by your absence.

And when I count noses tonight for dinner, I'll still say "five" in your memory.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++

I put together an album with photos highlighting Duchess' life, which hopefully you can access here:
https://plus.google.com/photos/105465929538269305215/albums/6126948139919282065/6126948146015821762?pid=6126948146015821762&oid=105465929538269305215 

And Then There Were Two

"His name is Elmo, he's 3 years old, he's red and white, he's extremely shy, and he needs to be an only dog. No other pets in the household," said the GABR foster mom. That information...and that last bit of advice...was about as close to wisdom as we were likely to get in making our second adoption from Guardian Angel Basset Rescue. For even though we knew exactly when Elmo was born – February 25, 2002 (not usually the case with rescues), we would learn precious little else about his first three years of life. But then, all animal adoptions are a crap-shoot, aren't they? So we rolled the dice, had a meet & greet in our driveway in O'Fallon, and signed the papers on Saturday, September 17, 2005.

When I say "we," I mean Missy M. She had moved to her Memphis-area apartment from an on-campus room, and she was missing her two Basset buddies, Duchess and Gus. Gussie-man was our first GABR rescue two years earlier, Elmo would be the second. A beautiful, shy Basset who needed to be an only dog? Perfect. Absolutely perfect, right? When in doubt, follow the wisdom and advice of the expert, right? Welllll...

Not exactly. Elmo hated being by himself while M was at work and/or in classes. Left to his own devices, he could absolutely destroy a bed. Oh, and he let everyone know his displeasure by baying and barking...long and loud. He could aahroo with the best of 'em! And a yappy, unhappy Basset is the last thing an apartment dweller can have.

Sure, M tried all the other bits of advice about an unhappy dog: long walks (twice a day), soothing background music, leaving the TV on, etc. Nope, nothing worked. It became quite evident that Elmo needed...contrary to the 'expert advice'...not to be an only, but to be part of a happy pack. 

"Bring him home. He'll fit right in here." And he did! Thus, Duchess, Gus, and Elmo became the Drool Gang. Truly, you could not have wished for a better pair of BFFs than G and E.

Mo-mo, Little Mo Man, Little Boy (since Gus was sometimes called Big Man/Boy). As with all of our pets, he went by several pet names. One of my favorites was Sweet Baby...because that's what he was. Sweetness itself. Elmo was so passive...to the point of being scared of most people outside of our immediate family...that he was easy to love, especially since he was so huggable. He was my Sweet Baby Boy, and he loved to occupy The Lap. And pretty much any bed or bed-like surface. He was a real snoozer!

The Gang was briefly broken apart when we moved from MO to NC, since the Houndz spent the transition months in KY with Missy M and her 'new' puppy, Ella Rae. The two E's, Elmo and Ella, shown together below, bonded over their energetic playtime...called Smack Down. And it seemed cruel to break up the pair at the time.

But then, heartbreak struck. Elmo was diagnosed with primary glaucoma...a particularly painful disease that afflicts certain breeds more than others, with Bassets being high on that list. It always ends in blindness as it would for E. And experts said 'a blind dog needs more round-the-clock supervision'...more than Missy M could provide while working full time. 

"Bring him home. He'll be fine here." And so, Duchess, Gus, and Elmo (shown L to R below on our NC deck) became the Drool Gang, once again. Of course, the joke was on all of us because Elmo took to his total blindness within days...sure, it required us humans a little longer, but he was a gentle teacher. Couldn't even tell he was blind from a distance, could you?

The past year brought two major adjustments in the Drool Gang: (1) Gus crossed the Rainbow Bridge and left us last July, and (2) Abbie enlisted in February. The Grand Plan was to make sure Elmo wasn't left as an only dog when/if 13 year old Duche$$ made her crossing (which we thought she was going to do in January). Boy, did we get that scenario wrong.

For the past couple of months or so, Elmo has been "not himself," showing signs of distress that ranged from not eating to lethargy to upset stomach to weakness...but always returning to his food bowl after a day or so and acting normal again. During his periods of distress, he would go under the deck (which ranges from mere inches to only about 2' off the ground) where he was inaccessible and only occasionally visible (if he chose to repose under the steps). At first, Abbie the Aussie Sheep Dog (on her Momma's side) would stay outside watching over him...literally straddling his head, if she could stand up where he was. I spent several nights, getting up every hour or so to look for him, trying to make sure he was OK.

Because Elmo feared car rides, changes in his routine, and most other people...and because any change in setting can traumatize a blind dog...I talked myself into not taking him to the vet right away. When he would emerge from under the deck, he would seem fine again...who wants to upset the applecart by subjecting him to more trauma?

Until last night. 

He emerged from the deck, but barely made it into the screened porch before collapsing. I got him calm and quiet for the rest of the evening, but he had labored breathing and seemed to be in a stupor. He began moaning in pain about 4:00 this morning, was drooling excessively...and I could tell he was feverish.

Although our hearts were breaking, we realized it was time. Even though we are both limited in what we can lift... Mr. T only has the use of his left arm following surgery on the right shoulder...and Elmo weighed nearly 50 pounds, we managed to devise a carry-sling out of a blanket...and somehow got him into my car. The drive to the Animal Emergency Clinic was the second-most saddest drive I've made...topped only by the lonely drive back home without my Mo-Mo.

The vet said "most likely bloat," another nemesis of Bassets and other barrel-chested canines...with "probable secondary septic peritonitis." Surgery to fix the problem is difficult even without an infection; costly; requires a lengthy recovery period; and isn't likely permanent...it can happen again, especially in senior dogs. I chose not to make Little Mo Man spend his last hour being poked and prodded, tested and tubed. It's the most difficult decision a pet parent has to make, but I chose to let him go in peace. Goodbye, Sweet Baby Boy...we shall miss you.

Tonight, Elmo and Gus can chase squirrels together again. Woo-woo!