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The end of a tail
By Patti Pfeiffer
It seemed so long in duration. I held her tight as the beast inside took charge, causing her body to move violently, in unnatural ways -- twisting, turning, shaking uncontrollably. The seizure was in control. Helpless. We were both so very helpless.
Strange how minutes seem like hours. At 70 pounds, there was no way I could carry my precious Angel to the car. At my wits end and feeling utterly useless, I urged Mom to run next door for a neighbor's help. The seizure lingered. It wouldn't let go.
Aid came. My canine kiddo was loaded and off we sped to the emergency vet clinic. It was the longest shortest distance I've ever driven. The return trip was even longer.
At nearly 15 and having endured one seizure, her time by my side was narrowing down. Yet, she seemed so healthy and held true to the label I'd applied. She was my Lazarus. I'd been burying her for months. Always she bucked the odds and bounced back. Not this day. Not this time. Her end had come.
Mom and I'd just sat down for dinner when I glanced to the patio where my adorable big girl and I'd been bonding minutes earlier. Enjoying the moments, I brushed her wooly dark coat while whispering sweet some things into her floppy ears. Her tail didn't wag that familiar contentment sign. But she seemed alright and sleeping tight.
It all changed in a flash. Instead of peacefully lying as she'd been only seconds before, she was in full motion, and so out of control. It was gruesome, grueling and worse than I could've imagined. Holding her head, sobbing, comforting, gently and lovingly I begged her to stop or give up, while simultaneously sending up a God-aimed SOS.
Why was I caught so off guard? I knew it would happen, and most likely soon. How long had I readied myself? Preparation isn't possible with some things in life. This was one such instance. When it comes to our pets, there's never enough time.
We'd been through so much, experienced countless adventures -- and ordeals. A couple of times I'd hurried into chest-high creek's murky waters to rescue that damn dog intent on winning a drowning battle against a very angry raccoon. And she was losing.
Though she had genes of a hunter, her heart was more that of a lover.
Wow, she enjoyed torturing me. Proof was her proudly prancing up after mischievously rolling in fresh fecal matter, caked on her coat, embedded in her collar. I can still smell that stench. Her skunk spraying sprees were highly preferred.
Having her as a pup, I should've known she'd grow up to be a real stinker. Only weeks residing in her new home she gnawed several holes in bedroom sheetrock walls and reduced window sills to splinters and sawdust.
I wanted to return the renegade. Hubby wouldn't hear of any such nonsense. "We can't return our puppy," he scolded me. "Adoption's forever. We take her through good and bad."
So long ago, but only a short span.
Walking up the sidewalk for the first time in countless years without Angel's welcoming chocolate eyes peeking out the front window and her mug resting on the sill, was heart-crushing at best.
Minus her flowing midnight mop, my office floor's cold, hard and stale. Her bunk next to my bed is agonizingly empty. I'll miss her favored routine slipper-napping game of stealing a shoe so I'd give chase.
I wish it hadn't been so traumatic for her, my mom and me. I wish she'd gone peacefully and at home. I wish my husband had been there by our side instead of out of town on business.
Yes, she lived long, had a wonderful life. Yep, humans are starving, dying and losing jobs. Those facts won't lessen my sorrow.
The tears still flow. They will stop soon. I've been through this before, and will again. But for now my heart's hurting, my river of tears grows longer and wider. There are an additional four paws waiting for me at The Rainbow Bridge. My Angel's gone home.
Patti Pfeiffer is a columnist for Star Local News, freelance writer and author. She can be reached at pattip913@msn.com
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