There she goes
I keep looking out into the backyard, half-expecting her to be there, rolling around on the grass, or laying in the sun, or sitting on the steps looking up at me with those soft brown eyes.
On Tuesday, my little dog died.
Little. She wasn't little, really. It was just a term of endearment. My little doggie. My puppy. She was a golden retriever. Her long, luscious fur made her look like a silky lion; it got everywhere. She was very rambunctious. We would wrestle sometimes, or I would chase her about the lawn. My sister was the one who picked her out; I wanted a different tiny puppy. But then I fell in love with her, too, when we brought her home. It seems like a long time ago. I picked out her name, perfect for the playful, beautiful, wild dog she was.
She was always so active. A retriever. Sometimes she would "retrieve" the wrong things; steal things like my father's yardwork gloves and parade around the lawn triumphantly with them. When we tried to get them back, she would dart away, her mischevious little eyes glinting at us, at this fun game. One time, when we were at The Ranch, she stole a little girl's toy horse and put a dent in it with her sharp little teeth. The little girl cried, and my mom was very mad at her. We got frustrated with her little games, sometimes, and became angry with her, too. But she wasn't a bad dog. She was never vicious or mean. She always approached you wagging her tail, very friendly. Sometimes she nipped my sister and I, in a playful puppy fashion, a little bad habit that she carried over from her younger days. She might have grown out of it, one day. She knew how to sit, stay (for a short time), give us her paw, and jump. My sister and I taught her those things.
Her name was Gypsy.
On Friday, she was absoulutely fine. A healthy, gorgeous golden retriever.
On Saturday, she was not as rambunctious and active as always. My sister and I thought she might be sick. On Sunday, her breathing was laboured and she wouldn't eat all her food. I called my mom, who was on vacation with my dad, and my mom came right home so we could take her to the vet. On Monday, I went to pick her up from the vet. I was late. I'm always late.
She thought she was a lap dog at times. She sat on me when I sat on the couch in the Dog Room. It was a little storage room attached to the garage, the only room she was allowed to go in. We put in a little dog door just for her. Seventy pounds of fun. She was a large dog. I secretly liked it when she sat on my, all her warm, furry weight, her dogflesh, pressed up against me. It was like cuddling. Sometimes my sister and I let her in the house when no one else was home; she wasn't allowed in. Sometimes, when my sister, me and my mom were home, we let her in, also. My mom was a co-conspirator. When it was hot, we gave her ice cubes to munch on. She liked those.
The vet told me that she was losing red blood cells for some reason, and he wasn't sure why yet. The test results were going to come in tomorrow. Int he meantime, he gave me some antibiotics to give her. I'm not sure why. She was weak and slothly, but she still wagged her tail as much as she could when she saw me. In her eagerness to get out of the vet's office, she still managed to pull on the leash and move me forward. I brought her home. My mom slept next to her on the floor that night.
On Sunday, when my sister and I suspected she was sick, we sang her Your Song while waiting for Mom to come home. We thought she might have a tummy ache.
On Tuesday morning, she was gasping for air, adn she couldn't/wouldn't get up. I was woken up by Mom, and I got dressed as quickly as I could. My sister and I lifted her onto her little green dog bed. It has holes, from where she chewed it. The couch in the dog room is full of holes, too. She ripped out the stuffing and ate it. We tried to patch the holes up with duct tape. Those cushions are sadly deflated, now.
My sister and I, one on each side, carried the dog bed, with Gypsy on it, to the front door. My mom pulled the car up close, and opened the trunk, adn we all three lifted the bed into it. She was masking these big gasps, but they were becoming few and slower. My jumped into the car and drove to the vet. We must've done around 50 mph in a 25-mph zone. We ran stop signs.
We pulled up the the vet's office, not even bothering to park in a parking space, and I jumped out when the car was still moving and ran into the office. It was horrible. I called out, "My dog is suffocating!" and then, without waiting for an answer, ran back out to the car, where my mom had opened the trunk. I ran over to her, calling her name, but I didn't see her breathing, oh why isn't she breathing, she must be breathing. Gypsy. The vet and an assistant ran out, the vet picking up her head, and the assistant her back end. She was limp, a little limp doggie. I was crying.
We walked into the waiting room, all three of us, my sister bawling, me weeping. It didn't seem real. The vet came out some time later. He looked at us simply and said, "She's gone." My sister let out a big cry of agony, and began bawling some more. I sort of knew she was going to die, when I saw she wasn't breathing. I had hoped, but my mind knew. The vet said that her body had been destroying her own red blood cells. Sometimes it's caused by a tumor, sometimes it just happens. She might have been given a blood transfusion, but even that would have been a long shot, since they're foreign blood cells and even more prone to being destroyed by her body. When we took her in, her red blood cell count had been low, he said. Not life-threatening. It shouldn't have gone down so fast. He told us her body would be cremated.
We went in and saw her, afterwards. She was lying on the operating table. her mouth was open, and her tongue was hanging out limply, as if death was mocking us. Her face never looked that way in life. I tried to close her mouth, to make it look more peaceful, but it was stiff. She was really dead, then.
We hugged her and hugged her and called her name and said things like, She was such a good dog. My mom said she had a good life, that her life was better than a lot of dogs. I didn't know what to think of that.
We clipped off some of her fur, the big fluff of it around her neck, the part my sister and I always referred to as her lion's mane. It was soft, there, not wiry like the very top of her back fur was. We took some scissors and cut some off. I was careful not to accidently nip her skin when cutting. I knew she was dead, but part of me didn't want to hurt her, expected her to make a quick little whine of pain if I did. I didn't. Afterwards, she looked a little strange, lying on the table with part of her fur sheared off. Her eyes were still open. So brown, and sweet. I pretended she was looking at me, as I kissed her goodbye. Then we walked out. I think we scared the people in the waiting room with their little dogs, the three of us trooping out, crying. My mom cries silently, reservedly. I asked my mom if I could walk home.
She was three years old.
It was so sudden. I want her back. I came home today from the stable, knowing she wouldn't be there. I cried whiule I was brushing Dillon. I cried when the gopher exterminator called, and asked how our doggie was. We thought that she might have eaten some gopher poison, so we called him to ask the ingredients. I told him no, it wasn't anything she ate. She died yesterday.
Sam once told me that if he didn't have the Medicine He Needs to Live, that he would starve to death no matter how much he ate. No matter how much air she breathed in, my dog suffocated to death.
It's cliche, I know. "My dog died and I'm so beat up over it." But I loved her, and it happened so fast. One day, you have a dog, and the next, you don't.
"She's gone."
And I loved her.
On Tuesday, my little dog died.
Little. She wasn't little, really. It was just a term of endearment. My little doggie. My puppy. She was a golden retriever. Her long, luscious fur made her look like a silky lion; it got everywhere. She was very rambunctious. We would wrestle sometimes, or I would chase her about the lawn. My sister was the one who picked her out; I wanted a different tiny puppy. But then I fell in love with her, too, when we brought her home. It seems like a long time ago. I picked out her name, perfect for the playful, beautiful, wild dog she was.
She was always so active. A retriever. Sometimes she would "retrieve" the wrong things; steal things like my father's yardwork gloves and parade around the lawn triumphantly with them. When we tried to get them back, she would dart away, her mischevious little eyes glinting at us, at this fun game. One time, when we were at The Ranch, she stole a little girl's toy horse and put a dent in it with her sharp little teeth. The little girl cried, and my mom was very mad at her. We got frustrated with her little games, sometimes, and became angry with her, too. But she wasn't a bad dog. She was never vicious or mean. She always approached you wagging her tail, very friendly. Sometimes she nipped my sister and I, in a playful puppy fashion, a little bad habit that she carried over from her younger days. She might have grown out of it, one day. She knew how to sit, stay (for a short time), give us her paw, and jump. My sister and I taught her those things.
Her name was Gypsy.
On Friday, she was absoulutely fine. A healthy, gorgeous golden retriever.
On Saturday, she was not as rambunctious and active as always. My sister and I thought she might be sick. On Sunday, her breathing was laboured and she wouldn't eat all her food. I called my mom, who was on vacation with my dad, and my mom came right home so we could take her to the vet. On Monday, I went to pick her up from the vet. I was late. I'm always late.
She thought she was a lap dog at times. She sat on me when I sat on the couch in the Dog Room. It was a little storage room attached to the garage, the only room she was allowed to go in. We put in a little dog door just for her. Seventy pounds of fun. She was a large dog. I secretly liked it when she sat on my, all her warm, furry weight, her dogflesh, pressed up against me. It was like cuddling. Sometimes my sister and I let her in the house when no one else was home; she wasn't allowed in. Sometimes, when my sister, me and my mom were home, we let her in, also. My mom was a co-conspirator. When it was hot, we gave her ice cubes to munch on. She liked those.
The vet told me that she was losing red blood cells for some reason, and he wasn't sure why yet. The test results were going to come in tomorrow. Int he meantime, he gave me some antibiotics to give her. I'm not sure why. She was weak and slothly, but she still wagged her tail as much as she could when she saw me. In her eagerness to get out of the vet's office, she still managed to pull on the leash and move me forward. I brought her home. My mom slept next to her on the floor that night.
On Sunday, when my sister and I suspected she was sick, we sang her Your Song while waiting for Mom to come home. We thought she might have a tummy ache.
On Tuesday morning, she was gasping for air, adn she couldn't/wouldn't get up. I was woken up by Mom, and I got dressed as quickly as I could. My sister and I lifted her onto her little green dog bed. It has holes, from where she chewed it. The couch in the dog room is full of holes, too. She ripped out the stuffing and ate it. We tried to patch the holes up with duct tape. Those cushions are sadly deflated, now.
My sister and I, one on each side, carried the dog bed, with Gypsy on it, to the front door. My mom pulled the car up close, and opened the trunk, adn we all three lifted the bed into it. She was masking these big gasps, but they were becoming few and slower. My jumped into the car and drove to the vet. We must've done around 50 mph in a 25-mph zone. We ran stop signs.
We pulled up the the vet's office, not even bothering to park in a parking space, and I jumped out when the car was still moving and ran into the office. It was horrible. I called out, "My dog is suffocating!" and then, without waiting for an answer, ran back out to the car, where my mom had opened the trunk. I ran over to her, calling her name, but I didn't see her breathing, oh why isn't she breathing, she must be breathing. Gypsy. The vet and an assistant ran out, the vet picking up her head, and the assistant her back end. She was limp, a little limp doggie. I was crying.
We walked into the waiting room, all three of us, my sister bawling, me weeping. It didn't seem real. The vet came out some time later. He looked at us simply and said, "She's gone." My sister let out a big cry of agony, and began bawling some more. I sort of knew she was going to die, when I saw she wasn't breathing. I had hoped, but my mind knew. The vet said that her body had been destroying her own red blood cells. Sometimes it's caused by a tumor, sometimes it just happens. She might have been given a blood transfusion, but even that would have been a long shot, since they're foreign blood cells and even more prone to being destroyed by her body. When we took her in, her red blood cell count had been low, he said. Not life-threatening. It shouldn't have gone down so fast. He told us her body would be cremated.
We went in and saw her, afterwards. She was lying on the operating table. her mouth was open, and her tongue was hanging out limply, as if death was mocking us. Her face never looked that way in life. I tried to close her mouth, to make it look more peaceful, but it was stiff. She was really dead, then.
We hugged her and hugged her and called her name and said things like, She was such a good dog. My mom said she had a good life, that her life was better than a lot of dogs. I didn't know what to think of that.
We clipped off some of her fur, the big fluff of it around her neck, the part my sister and I always referred to as her lion's mane. It was soft, there, not wiry like the very top of her back fur was. We took some scissors and cut some off. I was careful not to accidently nip her skin when cutting. I knew she was dead, but part of me didn't want to hurt her, expected her to make a quick little whine of pain if I did. I didn't. Afterwards, she looked a little strange, lying on the table with part of her fur sheared off. Her eyes were still open. So brown, and sweet. I pretended she was looking at me, as I kissed her goodbye. Then we walked out. I think we scared the people in the waiting room with their little dogs, the three of us trooping out, crying. My mom cries silently, reservedly. I asked my mom if I could walk home.
She was three years old.
It was so sudden. I want her back. I came home today from the stable, knowing she wouldn't be there. I cried whiule I was brushing Dillon. I cried when the gopher exterminator called, and asked how our doggie was. We thought that she might have eaten some gopher poison, so we called him to ask the ingredients. I told him no, it wasn't anything she ate. She died yesterday.
Sam once told me that if he didn't have the Medicine He Needs to Live, that he would starve to death no matter how much he ate. No matter how much air she breathed in, my dog suffocated to death.
It's cliche, I know. "My dog died and I'm so beat up over it." But I loved her, and it happened so fast. One day, you have a dog, and the next, you don't.
"She's gone."
And I loved her.