A story about a dog.
There was a time when I thought cloning a pet was a crazy idea. There are so many pups and mature dogs out there that need a loving home that it would be selfish to jump nature's process. And then one day, a dog stole my heart.
She came into our home under a false pretense that it would be the children's dog. And though they played with her and showed her love while they were here, there was no question that the dog became mine.
The bond started slowly. Reluctantly, I was the one that walked and fed her and I admit I was bemused by signs of intelligence that would have annoyed other owners. In the first few days, she would almost go insane begging to be let out in the dead of night. I put a leash on her and complied. And that's when this little survivalist showed me what she was made of. After struggling against the leash she turned around and in her excited and happy manner, jumped up on my chest. Not a trained dog, but a clever one since I was so startled I dropped the leash.
And she was off, plunging into the darkness to find the game that her sharp ears had convinced her was near-by. This dog had obviously been on her own for a very long time before she was rescued.
She was a runner in the early days. One day she got away from me and I saw her break into a fluid stride and for a moment, I saw the beauty of untethered nature. I wasn't alarmed. I just sat back and admired her ability. If we were in a rural environment, I wouldn't have gone after her, because it was obvious that this animal had figured out how to survive in the wild. But, there were other realities to consider. For one thing, I know that at one time she had a home. I know this because she would go crazy with longing whenever we drove by a school and there were kids in the vicinity. But there was also the fear of white haired men. She was terrified of them. And these reactions to other people helped me fill in the blanks of what her life must have been like before she came into our home.
We all had adjustments to make. There were the walks. She went from being lead dog in an Alaskan Adirondack race, pulling on the leash with a force that exceeded reason for her 39 pounds of weight. With training, she learned to respectfully walk by my side, but there was no question that she set the pace. She was slowed only by her desire to explore every smell that we came across.
In the house, however, I was the Alpha. She was not like the dogs that needed constant attention, but she did follow me from room to room, and didn't even question it when I returned to the same room three times before I remembered what it was I was looking for.
Truthfully, though, I never did get the hang of being the Alpha. I always assumed she wanted something from me and was always trying to figure out what it was. In one moment of exasperation I yelled out, "I'm not Alpha material! I am more of an Alpha-Omega!" which is to say that I was trying to figure out what she wanted from me. Food? Water? A walk? A hug?
Over the years, the change that comes with age became apparent. I first noticed it on our walks. Where she had finally learned to stay by my side, she was now lagging behind. I was now the one that had to slow down for her.
Then came the chronic lameness, followed by her first seizure two and a half months ago.
I will tell you, that each day that we had her after that first seizure was a gift. We even went on a half dozen long walks during that time. But, to keep her alive and functional, there was a balance that had to be maintained.
The anti-seizure medication would dope her up, so we reduced the dosage (with the doctor's approval) and made sure she ate well to counter the effects. In the end, it was all about the food. When she refused to eat I would hide pieces of ham to wet her appetite. When she refused to get out of bed in the morning, I would bring her food to her.
Then, there was a moment three weeks ago when I found the first lump. It was not like the cysts that had been growing on her under-carriage. This was a lump, dark and under the skin that was growing behind her ear. The next day, I found another one under her collar, so I removed the collar to prevent irritation. Each day I found a new one and she was aware they were there too.
At first, I avoided them when I petted her. But one day she came up to me, and in her eyes there was a need she wanted to express. She pushed her head against my leg like she wanted to be petted. I knew she was trying to tell me that the lump was bothering her. So I did what I could to massage the area, and though it seemed to bring her relief, she looked up at me with such sad eyes. I think she knew at that moment, that I wasn't God, afterall.
We had talked about the possibility of cancer with the doctor on a consultation and had turned down further medical intervention. My dog was 15 and a half years old, and had Addison's Disease. Everyone I had spoken to that put their older pets through these heroic efforts advised against it. It was not just the expense, but they believed that the recovery took away from their pets last moments of comfort and dignity.
I was playing against the clock, but, still in denial. And then, the clock ran out.
It's true. You do know when it's time to put them down, though you might not have much time to make the decision. For two days, all the signs were there. She was sleeping until noon and when she was awake, everything was an effort. She was never really comfortable, but I had taken my dog's high threshold for pain for granted and refused to believe that she was ready to go.
I missed the first seizure, but a noise tipped me off that something was wrong. I found her slipping in the pool of her own urine on the glazed tile. My husband and I picked her up and propped her on her bed, where she never got up again. For the next three hours, the seizures came in like labor pains, though we didn't see the pattern right away. We increased her anti-seizure medication and hoped for the best, gave her time to see if they kicked in. At first, the seizures were mild, and she responded to my voice.
But, once we connected that they were coming in every twenty minutes and she refused any offers of water, we knew that we were watching her final moments.
I was in the back of the car with my dog as we drove to the emergency room. I had to hold her head up because the anti-seizure medication had doped her up. Maybe that wasn't a bad thing. I didn't see fear or anxiety.
She had a seizure after we got her in the car, and another one at the clinic. After examining my dog in the backroom, the doctor confirmed that putting her down was the best option. My last moments with my dog were urgent and hurried. When they brought her into the room, she readily recognized the pillow-bed we brought from home and took to it with great relief. I noticed the catheter that was in her arm, and knew before my husband did, why it was there.
We wanted to beat the next seizure, but didn't make it. The doctor administered the sedative and I was grateful when the injection stopped the movements. I saw the look of relief sweep in my dog's eyes, before she fell asleep.
I will tell you what was grueling about the next injection. Here I was speaking in a slow, soothing voice telling my dog everything I wanted her to know about what she meant to me and how I expected to one day see her again, and all the while I was trying to keep my voice confident and reassuring, while I watched in despair as her heart fought against the effect of the drug. I could see it pounding against her chest, which was a stark contrast to the calm, serene look on her face.
The emergency clinic was great. They gave us as much time as we needed. And then we were back home, where the strong memories of my dog were so etched in my mind, that I could swear I still heard her stirring, or barking or making that funny guffaw noise she would make. But probably the strangest experience I had that night was waking up and feeling abnormally cold. It sometimes happens when I knock off the blanket in my sleep, but when I woke up to check, they were firmly in place. I was still semi-asleep, and had the feeling that the uncomfortable cold feeling was in my imagination. But, just for a second, I pondered if it was possible that I still felt a connection with my old friend. I guess I will never know.
But, yes, count me firmly in the cloned pet camp. A dog, like that, with such a high threshold for pain and a model of quiet dignity, I am sure I will never find again.
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You gave your dog a wonderful life. She lived and died knowing she was loved. You cannot do better than that.
You write very eloquently about her life with you. 
We are currently caring for two elderly dogs with assorted problems. It is very, very sad.
Your extraordinary post shows how much she loved and was loved. There's nothing I can say that will make you feel better, but just know that there's a woman in Michigan who is crying for you and your friend. Hugs to you.
I talked to Alex as he left for the rainbow bridge. They leave such huge holes for such small bodies with massive hearts.
when they are failing, that you are going to have to make that decision -- and then doing it. I've held too many of my lovely ones in their final moments. It is never easy.
My rescue, Snowy, is a runner. Oh, she loves to run free! She also wants to be lead dog on walks
and I suspect that's the American Eskimo in her. But she follows me, from room to room, too, unless
there have been deer in the yard, and then she's at her post in the hall where she can watch through
the floor to ceiling windows to see if they return.
Your dog knew how much you loved her and she will always be present in your heart--and if you are lucky,
she will visit you in your dreams.
