A couple of years ago, amidst a flurry of bad life-weather, I became convinced that getting a dog was the answer. Fixated, actually. And I began my search, through private agencies, kennels, online pet sites and finally craigslist. Where I found Gus. He was staring up at me in the picture, this little mutt that looked a bit like a newborn calf, all orange and white with a little pink freckled nose and amber eyes. He was just a couple of weeks old, living right outside of Issaquah on a small "farm." His mom was a breeding greyhound that had had an illicit affair with an unknown neighbor dog and created six pups that didn't really look like any breed you could quite put your finger on. We later guessed some kind of retriever/bully mix.
So we drove out, my friend Dave and I, and met Gus. He was so excited to meet me that he peed all over the place. I knew right away he was mine. Terrified but thrilled, he rode home with me and my friend Dave, laying next to me on the front seat whimpering and shaking. But once he got here, that was it - he had found his people and his home and he settled right in like one of the family.
And that's what we were: a family - me, Sasha and Gus. And we hung out like a family and we ate like a family and we snuggled on the couch and watched TV and read like a family and we sometimes slept in a Gus sandwich. We had group hugs every day. When Gus broke his leg and was in a cast we moved our mattresses onto the floor so he could still sleep with us.
He followed me absolutely everywhere - when I paced, which I do when I write or think, he paced right next to me with his nose stuck in my hand. He did the laundry with me and cooked with me and surfed the web with me. He was always here and almost always looking right at me with them sweet amber eyes.
After Gus turned one and we had a little birthday party at the dog park, he almost immediately began having seizures - the first one, freaky as hell, was to become a regular thing - stiffen, fall down, eyes ablaze and frozen, body clenched and paddling, foam spewing from the mouth, bodily fluids let go, all...until he'd get up, blind and frightened, and pace, walking into walls and furniture, wailing for me to comfort him until it all passed. Which I did.
We went to the vet, who told me it was epilepsy, put him on phenobarbitol and they seemed to stop. Until they didn't again. Then he would have two, three, four in one day. Then more phenobarbitol, now twice a day. Then later up to the highest dose without it becoming toxic. Then adding potassium bromide from the compounding pharmacy. Meds, meds, meds. Three times a day, and if you're a couple hours late, you know it's going to mean another seizure. Or two. Or three. But then you get it down, get into the rhythm and it becomes normal and every day you do it right. But finally, in the end, it doesn't matter anymore if you do it right, the seizures break through it all anyway.
The day before the last day I came home from work and found evidence of at least three grand mal seizures, one big enough to have moved chairs across the floor and leaving a large bruise on Gus's leg. He was frantic, jumping all over me and finally calming enough to conk out. Only to wake up while I was writing that night to have another grand mal seizure next to my chair. And this time he couldn't seem to shake it; he'd walk around and stare at things, his water dish, like he'd forgotten why he was there. We slept with the light on because I was afraid he wasn't done yet.
The next day when I brought him to the vet I was beside myself. Without being able to think about it clearly or articulate it to myself, I knew what had to happen. They said they would keep him there and take blood levels to see if they needed to add a third medication. I went home. They called me and said they couldn't keep Gus there, he was too upset and agitated. When I went to get him, I told them to hold off on the tests, they were very expensive and I knew I had some searching to do on my own. I brought Gus home, where he continued to flop down and sigh and tremor with his head. My baby boy was very sick.
The vet called me back and we talked. Gus's future was not going to be bright. He may look like the beautiful puppy he still was, but he was not going to get better. They could possibly find a combination of medication to hold off most of the seizures, the vet didn't really know, but it would be extremely costly and he would be maxed out, drugged up, most of the time. She said she would be willing to do that, but that she also thought that she wanted to give me permission to think about something else: humane euthanasia. O God.
And so it went. I called Sasha in a haze and we talked about it and she wanted to come home and say goodbye to Gusgus, which she did. Then my lovely friend Michelle came over and said she was coming with me and we went. And they shot him full of valium and it didn't slow down his anxiety and they shot him full again and finally it did and he lay down next to me and put his head on my lap. And then they gave him an overdose of anesthesia. And the vet looked at me with the stethescope to his chest and nodded and I knew it was over. He was so soft and so light and so beautiful and he sailed away.
It's been hard to forgive myself for what seemed like my snap decision that day, but you know, I think that's more about trying to feel some kind of personal control rather than actual guilt or maybe the unrelenting pain that goes with losing your best friend. I tried for almost a year after he got sick to find a happy medium - one where he could still be the goofy pup he was and where I could keep up with taking care of him - but in the end I was told that he was too substantially sick to hope for that. He was not wired well, he was beginning to become brain damaged, it wasn't going to get any better and it would only get worse. I know I spared him having to live through worse, but I also spared myself watching it, and that's where the guilt steps in. But guilt is only a feeling, it's not a fact.
I come from a family that thinks it's stupid to have pets and that if you do, to give and receive affection from them is silly and ridiculous. But I don't. I loved Gussie with all my heart and he knew that. He loved me with all his and I knew that too. Many people never get the chance to have that sacred bond with their pet and I feel bad for them. The love we have for our animals is what makes us even more human than before and to receive it from them? Unconditional love is never something to turn your back on. Never.
And so it's two days later and I'm having trouble eating and I sleep with his collar wrapped around my wrist and the clothes that I was wearing as he drifted out of this world and I think I'm going to lose it regularly. I cry and I walk the streets Gus and I walked together and I'm so, incredibly, profoundly lonely. I'm going to feel better some day soon, I'm sure of it, and I'm going to be able to forgive myself too.
But for right now, it's much, much too quiet here.
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