He hadn’t
eaten anything in two days. (With a beagle, you should worry about loss of
appetite after two hours.) He was clearly in distress. Breathing heavily. Hadn’t
budged in hours. I took him to the emergency veterinary clinic where they initially
diagnosed it as a treatable infection, but Toby was not getting better.
“I
do want to take him home,” I said without hesitation. “I want some time with
him to say good-bye.” I looked into his
eyes; the sparkle was gone. I hoped that taking him back to the house was the
right decision.
Barney—who
passed away ten years ago this week— had accompanied me on 2,500 TV shows for
WISH-TV. Rather than become my next TV sidekick,
Toby became nothing more than my next best friend. And nothing was more
important than that. I’ve had a hound by my side for 23 years. The transition
from beagle to beagle was seamless. The two dogs looked alike, they acted
alike, they drove my wife crazy alike.
When
we got home from the vet, Toby curled up on his bed next to the TV. He didn’t move
for 12 hours. No interest in water or food.
I spent most of the next afternoon lying next to him, stroking his ears.
When my wife got home, I remember saying, “I know this dog; he is dying.” Mary
Ellen took issue with my prognosis. “I think he’s going to be fine,” she said,
an observation that I took to be directed more at assuaging my anxiety than a legitimate
medical assessment.
Over
the next few days, Toby began wandering around the house, soon barking to go
outside to sit in the afternoon sun. His tail started wagging and by the end of
the week he had tipped over all the wastebaskets in the house and snatched a
loaf of bread from the kitchen counter. I was ready to kick his butt. I wanted
my wife to wipe that self-satisfied look off her face. This was three months
ago.
Except
for a newly torn cruciate ligament, he’s pretty much like a pup again, carrying
around his dinner bowl in his mouth, coaxing me to fill it constantly with the
canned moist food I switched to when he got sick. I don’t have the heart to go
back to the tasteless dry fare that he never relished.
Toby
is 13, but my hope is that he lives long enough for his leg to mend and that we
can head out again for our daily walks around the neighborhood. The growths may
never have been found had he not been treated for this incidental infection. I’m
thinking he may stick around for a while.
I
could have easily made a different decision that night at the clinic, never
knowing if I made the right one. This
experience offers no life lessons. There is no moral here. It’s just a story,
but so far, a story with a happy ending.
Dick...good read...Beagles are amazing dogs. I still have Bailey (she is almost 12 but she acts like she is 2). Right now, she is doing what I call "root hogging" on my bed. In other words, she is destroying what was 5 minutes ago a nicely made bed so she can find a comfortable space to take her next nap. Oh well...gotta love em!!!
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