Thud.
Well, I'm not exactly sure what to say. I really don't know where to begin. I guess a basic statement is the best.
It's 5:40 in the morning. I've been up since 3:30. At 3:40, I watched my dog, Harley, die right before my eyes. He was poisoned. Someone murdered Harley, and all I could do was watch him die.
A few days ago, Harley threw up. We didn't know why, he seemed fine, so we let it be. Then, the next day, he threw up again. This time we were a little worried, so we took him to the vet yesterday. When I got home last night, Harley was not moving much, had a hematoma (internal bleeding where the skin holds the blood inside and it pools) that ran from his lip to his lungs, but seemed like he would be ok. He was moving around, drinking water, even though his breathing was a bit labored, which they said it would be. The last time I saw him, he had jumped onto the guest bed and was lying there, looking sick but not fatally so. The next thing I know, it's 3:30, and my parents make a noise outside my room and open my door. I walk out, and Harley is lying sprawled on some tile, blood leaking from his mouth, his eyes wide, barely breathing. I went to my knees and started petting him, and he made an effort to move, but couldn't, and settled still. My dad went to get the emergency vet number, and couldn't find it, so he searched for about 5 minutes or so. While he was doing that, Harley stopped breathing. He heart kept beating, though. He had a strong heart. My dad was on the phone with the vet at this point, and he was describing what had happened. At that point, Harley let out a small breath, and his heart stopped. His eyes were still open. He was gone. My mom told my dad that he was dead, and my dad told the vet and hung up. We all just kind of sat there, petting what was our dog, not knowing what to say. Someone had given Harley rat poison. Someone murdered him. He had spent his last day on earth suffering because someone wanted him to die. We never believed that he would die like this, because that previous night he had been in pain, but we thought he would make it. But we were wrong. He died in agony.
He was bleeding, scared, and helpless. We were helpless as well. The last few hours, all I've been able to ask myself are "Who? Why did they do it? Why did he have to die like this?", but there are no answers. Only sobbing. He's still outside my room, lying sprawled on the tile. His body has no more heat, even though we put a blanket over him. He's stiff and covered in blood. I went to pet him some more, but it just makes the pain worse, knowing that he'll never be there again to demand to be let outside, to groan whenever you made him move, to walk up wagging his tail, asking for a pet. I keep thinking that he'll be there when I walk outside my door, smiling and waiting for me. But that will never happen again. He died with fear in his eyes. Why did someone do it? Why did he have to die like this?
Someone poisoned him. Someone gave him rat poison because they wanted him to die. And they succeeded.
After we had covered him, we walked down the hallway to where he had been, or at least I did. There were blood stains on the carpet, large ones. Some had more than blood in them, from where he had vomited what must have been gathering in his throat. The bed had blood on it, though not as much. I suppose in the end, he wanted to go outside, because his favorite thing was to lie in the sun. He must have hopped off the bed and stumbled down the hallway, bleeding and throwing up from the effort. He made it across the house and two rooms away from his dog door, where he collapsed. I think his final effort to move was his last effort to make it outside, but he just couldn't do it. The poison was too strong.
Feeling numb from all of this, we started to clean up the stains in the carpet. Later it struck me, what I had been doing. I was having to clean up the stains of blood from someone I loved. No one should have to do something like that, and no one should ever have to suffer through what Harley did. He had walked down the hall with everything he had. Someone made him do that. Someone made us do it as well. Now, all I can smell is his dried blood mixed with tears, vinegar, and water.
I don't know what else to say. All I know is that those three questions keep coming back. "Who did it? Why did they do it? Why did he have to die like this?"
All I know is that the greatest companion I've ever had died in agony.
It's 5:40 in the morning. I've been up since 3:30. At 3:40, I watched my dog, Harley, die right before my eyes. He was poisoned. Someone murdered Harley, and all I could do was watch him die.
A few days ago, Harley threw up. We didn't know why, he seemed fine, so we let it be. Then, the next day, he threw up again. This time we were a little worried, so we took him to the vet yesterday. When I got home last night, Harley was not moving much, had a hematoma (internal bleeding where the skin holds the blood inside and it pools) that ran from his lip to his lungs, but seemed like he would be ok. He was moving around, drinking water, even though his breathing was a bit labored, which they said it would be. The last time I saw him, he had jumped onto the guest bed and was lying there, looking sick but not fatally so. The next thing I know, it's 3:30, and my parents make a noise outside my room and open my door. I walk out, and Harley is lying sprawled on some tile, blood leaking from his mouth, his eyes wide, barely breathing. I went to my knees and started petting him, and he made an effort to move, but couldn't, and settled still. My dad went to get the emergency vet number, and couldn't find it, so he searched for about 5 minutes or so. While he was doing that, Harley stopped breathing. He heart kept beating, though. He had a strong heart. My dad was on the phone with the vet at this point, and he was describing what had happened. At that point, Harley let out a small breath, and his heart stopped. His eyes were still open. He was gone. My mom told my dad that he was dead, and my dad told the vet and hung up. We all just kind of sat there, petting what was our dog, not knowing what to say. Someone had given Harley rat poison. Someone murdered him. He had spent his last day on earth suffering because someone wanted him to die. We never believed that he would die like this, because that previous night he had been in pain, but we thought he would make it. But we were wrong. He died in agony.
He was bleeding, scared, and helpless. We were helpless as well. The last few hours, all I've been able to ask myself are "Who? Why did they do it? Why did he have to die like this?", but there are no answers. Only sobbing. He's still outside my room, lying sprawled on the tile. His body has no more heat, even though we put a blanket over him. He's stiff and covered in blood. I went to pet him some more, but it just makes the pain worse, knowing that he'll never be there again to demand to be let outside, to groan whenever you made him move, to walk up wagging his tail, asking for a pet. I keep thinking that he'll be there when I walk outside my door, smiling and waiting for me. But that will never happen again. He died with fear in his eyes. Why did someone do it? Why did he have to die like this?
Someone poisoned him. Someone gave him rat poison because they wanted him to die. And they succeeded.
After we had covered him, we walked down the hallway to where he had been, or at least I did. There were blood stains on the carpet, large ones. Some had more than blood in them, from where he had vomited what must have been gathering in his throat. The bed had blood on it, though not as much. I suppose in the end, he wanted to go outside, because his favorite thing was to lie in the sun. He must have hopped off the bed and stumbled down the hallway, bleeding and throwing up from the effort. He made it across the house and two rooms away from his dog door, where he collapsed. I think his final effort to move was his last effort to make it outside, but he just couldn't do it. The poison was too strong.
Feeling numb from all of this, we started to clean up the stains in the carpet. Later it struck me, what I had been doing. I was having to clean up the stains of blood from someone I loved. No one should have to do something like that, and no one should ever have to suffer through what Harley did. He had walked down the hall with everything he had. Someone made him do that. Someone made us do it as well. Now, all I can smell is his dried blood mixed with tears, vinegar, and water.
I don't know what else to say. All I know is that those three questions keep coming back. "Who did it? Why did they do it? Why did he have to die like this?"
All I know is that the greatest companion I've ever had died in agony.