When hope falls short

It’s interesting how one writes … sometimes to chronicle what is true, other times to project what you hope to be true.

She wasn’t so lucky after all.

Michka, our pup of only a few weeks, is gone.  We had to put her down.  It was a cruel déjà vu.  Just weeks before, we’d taken Riley, our Golden Retriever of 10 years, to the emergency vet to do the same deed.  In her case, a tumor had ruptured – a consequence of her older age and breed.

This time, though, we led a bright-eyed youngster in to the clinic knowing we needed to hurry - to put her “to sleep” before another round of spasms gripped her body, making her shake and salivate ... suffer.

That’s the hard part.  She was so sweet, so very sweet.  And to have that young disposition rendered almost meaningless by a deadly disease … well, that’s tough.

Again, the tears came.  But this time they were different. This pup had seriously touched our hearts but hadn’t yet reached in, wrapped her paws around them and owned them.  Time would have changed that, of course.   She had so little time.

And so we cried as the doctor administered the drugs, less for our pain and more for the injustice of her fate. Curious Michka had just begun exploring her world.  And then her world slammed shut. 

If all dogs go to Heaven, then distemper is the devil’s tool for getting them there.  It is pure evil,  usually fatal, always debilitating, it starts with a cough and some sneezes and ends with violent seizures and worse.

Michka got hers from the street, it appears.  She’d received her vaccine, but apparently the virus had lodged in her body before then, after she and her sister were abandoned and before the twins were picked up by the shelter.

After the coughing and sneezing began, we took tests. They were positive.  The vet was optimistic. Clinically she was in good shape.  She ate enough for two dogs, she played, she loved her walks.  Her odds?  “I’d say 50-50,” he said.  “Watch for any neurological changes.  That’ll tell us more.”

The seizures started on a Saturday … small, infrequent.  Then they progressed on Sunday.  And by dinnertime Sunday night, the final one was so severe it racked her body for at least five minutes. We feared she’d not surface.

When she did, finally, we knew our course.  We climbed in the car. This time we left Linus home.

After arriving, Michka and I sat in the car outside the vet; Cindy had gone in to explain the situation and to make sure they were fine with bringing Michka through the lobby, since she was contagious.

Michka had fallen asleep, exhausted from her last seizure. And I thought about my previous blog … how I had aspirations for Michka to grow big and strong, a righteous beast.

I think I knew in my heart then that it wouldn’t come true.  The odds were against her from the start, of course.  And when she joined us, she was still thin, bony, not quite the bundle of energy usually found in a new pup.

But I wished it to be different.  So when I heard a “woof,” I predicted it would become a mighty “WOOF!”  This featherweight, I vowed, would grow to 100 pounds.

It wasn’t to be.  I was in Houston at a trade show when Cindy called, after the test results were in.  “She’s got distemper,” Cindy said. 

I was sad; I wasn’t surprised.

So now Michka and I sat in the car, waiting. 

I stared across the street, tired, defeated.  Then a wedding party pulled up in a van and spilled out to the sidewalk. A reception was to begin in the nearby hall. There were smiles, laughter, pictures taken.  New beginnings.

I smiled just a bit … thought of next year.  Knew I’d need to write of this day but knew there would be joys ahead to chronicle.

Cindy returned, opened the car door. My distraction, like a bubble, popped.

We woke Michka.

“Come on girl,” I said softly, again. “Let’s go inside.”