The death of our dog, Tequila.
Hello Friends-
Just wanted to let you know that our dog Tequila died this morning at 11 AM.
He passed away peacefully, and was not in any pain.
He has been in declining health over the past year, since being diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes. While the twice daily injections did balance his sugar, he still continued to lose weight. As of this past week, he had lost nearly half his body weight in the past year, going from an 87 pound dog, down to a 50 pound dog. About three months ago, he began to have cognitive difficulties and behavioral problems. He developed severe separation anxiety, and began destroying things in the house whenever we went away. We put him on "Clomicalm," a prescription form of doggy Prozac that had done wonders for grumpy 'ol Max, but it appears that Tequila's problems were more severe than Max's. He did not respond as well. He continued to get very upset if we left the house without him, even to run simple errands. Even if I was just leaving to drop Alex off at school, I was sure to find something knocked over, (usually a bathroom or kitchen garbage can), when I returned, with Tequila waiting for me by the door, looking upset and guilty.
About two months ago, he seems to have lost his sense of smell, and if he dropped a piece of food on the floor, he couldn't find it anymore.
He also lost all sight in his blue eye.
About a month ago, he began peeing in the garage- not all the time, just on and off. So, we took him back to the vet, and just started him on another medication, this time for urinary incontinence.
This week, he started pooping in the garage every night. So, each morning, I cleaned it up.
Jovani was in Malaysia. I took Tequila to the vet, had him weighed, (he'd lost another 3 pounds,) had the dosages checked on all his medications, (they were correct,) and also had "the talk." I talked to the vet about "end-of-life" issues. When is the right time to put your pet to sleep? From all outward appearances, Tequila looked great. I shaved him on Monday, giving him his summer haircut. He looked just like a puppy again, with his adorable Dalmation-like summer spots revealed underneath that thick winter coat. When Alex and I walked him, people complimented him on his darling spots. I took him along twice to pick Alex up at school, (plus, to prevent damage to the house while I was gone,) and Tequila loved the attention from all the kids.
Last night, Alex, Tequila and I took an hour long walk, going all the way up Alex's new school, taking pictures of the ongoing construction, then rested for a while in the shade of a tree, giving Tequila a chance to catch his breath. Then, we took the long way home, walking on part of the levee trail. There were tall trees overhead, and lots of places for Tequila to sniff and pee. He seemed very happy.
But, on the last half mile of the walk, something wasn't right. He seemed to be walking sideways, and kept bumping into me.
"Alex, hold up a minute," I said, sitting down on the curb, "let's give Tequila a rest again."
Something definitely wasn't right. It was as if something in his brain was shutting down. Earlier in the walk, he kept walking off the curb, so I'd shortened the leash, keeping him closer by my side. I'd thought this was a result of his blind eye, but in retrospect, his blind eye was on the left side, not the right side, the curb side. Why was he walking off the right side?
And, now, why was he listing sideways, walking into me?
I scratched Tequila's ears, and we rested. It was a pleasant evening, neither too hot, nor too cold, and there was little traffic going by on the road. It was pleasant to just sit.
After a while, Tequila stood.
"OK," I said to Alex, "I think he's ready to go."
We walked the rest of the way home without incident. Tequila ate his dinner, took his meds, and immediately fell asleep, right next to his food dish.
When I woke up this morning, I smelled pee and poop. As I walked downstairs, I stepped in a wet spot on the stairs. Someone had peed on the stairs, and it wasn't me.
"OK," I thought, "I'll get that later. Coffee first."
As I walked to the kitchen, the smell of poop grew stronger. I walked out to the garage to investigate, and narrowly missed stepping in not one, but two big piles of poop.
"OK," I told myself, "I'll get that before the pee, but coffee first."
I walked back into the kitchen, and over to the coffee maker. I'd left myself a note by the coffee maker: "Parker and Dodge." I was taking care of my neighbors' dogs, and the note was a reminder to me to let them out first thing in the morning.
"Ah, coffee will have to wait," I thought, as I grabbed my keys, and headed next door to potty and feed the neighbors' dogs.
As I was talking to the dogs in their backyard, I heard Tequila whimpering in my own backyard.
"Tequila?" I said, calling over the fence.
He cried louder at hearing my voice, as if he was in pain.
"I'll be right there!" I said, giving Parker and Dodge a quick kiss good bye, and promising them I'd be back soon to check on them.
As I walked back into my kitchen, I could see Tequila through the living room windows. He was in the backyard, wandering aimlessly back and forth, and whimpering. And bumping into things. First, he crashed shins first into Alex's metal Yellow Tonka dumptruck. Ouch. That had to hurt. He backed away from that. Changed directions and crashed right into Alex's green watering can. He changed directions again and crashed right into the BBQ grill. He changed directions again and walked straight into a bush. He began whimpering loudly again.
"Oh my God," I realized, "he can't see."
Overnight, he had gone completely blind. He had lost all sight in his brown eye now.
I opened the back door and called to him. He tried to follow the sound of my voice, but could not. It was as if the part of the brain that tracked sound and direction were not connected. He walked in completely the wrong direction, continuing to crash into things. I walked out, grabbed hold of his collar, and gently guided him in.
He was shaking.
"Shhhhh," I said, petting him, and trying to guide him onto his favorite sheepskin rug. He was too upset to lie down. He continued to wander aimessly in the kitchen, now bumping into the corner of the table, then, each one of the chairs, over and over. I grabbed him by the collar, and guided him over to his water dish, splashing my fingers in the bowl to make a sound, then guiding his face right into the dish. He drank. I then hand fed him dog biscuits. As soon as a bite fell out of his mouth, it was lost. He could not track a lost bite by scent on the ground. His sense of scent, and the tracking that went with it, was completely gone.
By this time, Alex was awake. With Alex's help, I gave Tequila his insulin shot. (Alex loves giving Tequila his shot, and has been doing so every since Tequila busted my thumb, and I could no longer depress the injector on the syringes. I call Alex my little Dr. Doogy Howser.) After he ate and had his insulin, Tequila calmed down and stopped shaking. I guided him over to his sheepskin, and he lay down.
An hour later, Jovani arrived home from his business trip to Malaysia.
We sat down at the kitchen table, and I made us coffee. I finally got to have my coffee.
Jovani and I talked about what we had to do.
It was pretty clear.
"Would you call?" Jovani asked.
I didn't want to. I knew I wouldn't be able to get through the phone call without crying, as I get very emotional about such things, but women are better about handling such things than men are, so I said I would do it.
"Just let me finish my coffee first," I said.
I figured everything would be OK if I could just finish my coffee.
Jovani said down with Tequila on his sheepskin rug, and said: "I'm sorry, Tequila."
So, a minute later, I called, and fortunately the vet was there. I heard myself say: "I need to euthenize my dog. Can we come in?" They are not always open on Saturday morning. But, she had to come in for another patient, and if we could get there in the next 20 minutes, she would do it.
Well, I'd hoped to have a shower this morning, but I suppose for something like this, you don't need a shower. We called a neighbor, asking if Alex could spend the morning at their house. I tried to tell Alex where we were going, and why. I'd explained to him earlier in the week about the terms "putting the dog to sleep," and why we might have to do it soon. He had asked questions then, and had wanted to know if Tequila would be going to the same heaven where Grandpa had gone. This morning, he had no questions. He was more interested in the fact he was getting an unexpected playdate at his best friend's house. He excitedly packed his favorite toys, (namely rubber snakes, rubber lizards, and paper airplanes,) and was out the door without so much as a good bye. I guess kids grieve in their own way. Lately, Alex had been getting annoyed at Tequila all the time for knocking over his Lego creations, and walking in front of the TV when he was watching one of his favorite Discovery Channel shows. He did seem to really enjoy our evening walks with Tequila, but other than that, Alex, overall, is much more fond of the cats than he is, or, I guess, was, of Tequila.
Alex was out the door.
I took one last picture of Tequila. I don't know why. I guess I just needed to close the loop.
Ten minutes later, we were at the vet's.
Tequila was in good spirits all the way there, very happy to be going on a car ride.
"I'm sorry, Tequila," Jovani kept saying in the car on the way over.
As we were walking in from the parking lot, someone at the coffee house next door wanted to pet Tequila. "What a cute dog! How sweet!" We pretended we didn't hear them, and quickly walked past. Now was not the time for the "what kind of dog is he/what a cute dog talk." Because our next sentence would have had to have been: "Look lady, we have to go, because we are putting this cute dog to sleep and the vet's office is closing in ten minutes..." So, we just kept on walking as if we hadn't heard. If Tequila could be blind, we could be deaf.
The veterinary assistant immediately recognized me. Tequila and I had been in there enough times over the past year, picking up medicines. She took us right into an exam room, sparing us any conversations with anyone else. There were a few people in the lobby, buying pet foods and such. I was very grateful for this.
"We'll do it in here," she said.
We took care of the paperwork, and paid in advance, so that we could leave right after the euthenization.
"Do you want to be present?" the vet tech asked.
"Yes," I immediately said firmly.
"No," Jovani said, just as firmly.
Jovani and I looked at each other, eyes locked on each other. It was very rare that Jovani and I ever disagreed on anything.
"Let's just go," Jovani said.
The vet had warned me about this the other day when we had our conversation about "end-of-life" issues. Men are not good with dying. She said most men can not handle being in the room. I knew that I could. I also knew that with Tequila's severe separation anxiety there was no way I was going to leave him alone for something as frightening as this.
"I'm not leaving him," I said, "he'll be too scared. You go ahead. I'll be OK."
I handed Jovani a pocket package of tissues. I'd grabbed two pocket packs before I left the house. One for me. One for Jovani.
Jovani's eyes were already welling up with tears. He leaned down and kissed Tequila on the head. "I'll see you on the other side, buddy," he said. He thought for a moment, then looked Tequila in the eyes and said: "Say hello to Dad. And... Max. And, Oliver. And, Lady." He looked at me: "I'm going to move the car to the far side of the parking lot."
I nodded. Jovani wanted to cry, and he didn't want anyone from the coffee house to see him. There was something very sweet about that.
Jovani left the room.
The vet tech brought in a soft black blanket.
"You can lay him down here, and make him comfortable. I'll give you a few minutes to say good bye, and the vet will be in when she's done with the other patients," said the vet tech.
The black blanket was a little creepy. Why not blue, like a nice summer sky with puffy clouds? That's how I picture heaven.
Tequila didn't want to lie down, and I didn't force him. I sat down on the bench, and Tequila rested his head against my leg. I gave him a good ear scratch, and talked to him gently, telling him what a very good dog he was.
It seemed like a very long wait before the vet came in, but it probably wasn't more than 15 or 20 minutes. I guess I was just dreading it, wanting it to be over, but not wanting it to be over at the same time, and also knowing that Jovani was out there in the minivan at the far side of the parking lot, waiting for me, crying, trying to avoid the curious glances of the Saturday morning coffee shop crowd.
I heard the refrigerator door open, and then close again, outside the exam room.
"They're getting out the euthenasia," I realized.
There was a murmuring of voices, and then the door clicked open.
"Ah, Tequila," the vet said. Tequila turned his head at the voice, trying to figure out where the sound was coming from. The vet had seen a lot of Tequila in the past year. I wanted to immediately explain WHY we were doing this, and say that Tequila had gone blind overnight, but I suppose it didn't matter. No one had asked. I guess as a dog owner you have the right to put your dog to sleep any time you want to and nobody asks any questions. You just call up and say you want them put to sleep, and that is enough, no questions asked.
So, I simply said: "Thank you for taking us without an appointment." It was all I could manage without starting to cry, so I said no more.
"Let's get him on the blanket," the vet said.
Tequila resisted. He didn't want to lie down on that creepy black blanket. The blanket he was supposed to die on. I can't blame him.
But, between the vet, the vet assistant and myself, we coaxed him onto the blanket.
I held his head as they tried to give him the shot. He whimpered loudly and pulled his leg away. The shot did not go in.
"Let's try the other leg," the vet said.
We rolled him over. The leg was a bit too hairy. It was one of the few spots I hadn't been able to succesfully shave this week. Tequila wouldn't let me shave his lower legs-- too ticklish there I guess. So, the vet got the shaver, and shaved his lower leg bare. Then, she tried again, and this time the needle went in.
Tequila didn't yelp.
He didn't react at all, at first.
Then he just relaxed in my arms. I settled his body on my legs, and his head on my arms. I gave him kiss after kiss on his forehead and his ears.
"You are such a good dog, Tequila," I told him, "you are such a good, good dog." He turned his head just a little and kissed away the tear I hadn't even realized had rolled down my face. Then, he turned his head back into the crook of my arm, and he sighed.
"Such a good boy, Tequila, such a good, good boy," I said, over and over again. More than anything, Tequila always wanted acceptance from me. He always wanted the same attention I gave to Sam and Max. Sam and Max were my sweethearts, my darlings. He always wanted to be my darling, too. After Max died, Tequila tried even harder to become "Mama's boy," following me everywhere I went in the house, even sitting with me in the bathroom. He was by my side every moment of the day, and was terribly upset if I was out of his sight for any amount of time. I could sense that these kisses, and this love, was making him very, very happy. It was what he always wanted.
"Good boy, Tequila, such a good, good, boy," I told him.
About three minutes had passed.
The vet leaned over and listened for his heartbeat.
"He's gone," she said. "What a nice way to go, with his Mommy giving him all those kisses. We all should be so lucky to go in such a manner."
I looked up at her.
"He woke up blind this morning," I told her, not sure why I said it, but I guess I wanted to tell her. So, I told her what happened to him this morning.
"Tequila had a lot of health issues," she said to me, "and he suffered a lot with the separation anxiety issues. You did the right thing today."
I looked down. I was still petting his ears and face. His eyes were still open, and he still felt warm and alive under my fingertips. Max had felt that way when he died, too. It had taken a long time for riger mortis to set in, so it had been hard to tell when Max had slipped from a coma into death.
I had to forcibly tell my fingers to stop petting Tequila, that he couldn't feel it anymore, and that he couldn't be comforted by it anymore. He was dead. He didn't feel dead. He didn't look dead. He looked... peaceful.
'OK, Diana, just get up, and walk away,' I told myself.
I let go of Tequila, and got up.
"Thank you," I said to the vet, standing up.
"Do you want his collar and leash?" she asked, unclipping his collar. He had lost so much weight it hung loosely on him.
I nodded, taking it from her. I thanked her again, and walked out. I nodded to the vet tech on the way out, but didn't trust myself to speak anymore.
As soon as I got into the bright sunshine of the parking lot, I truly lost it, and the tears began rushing down my face. Anyone watching from the coffee house got a good show. A lady emerges from the vet's office with an empty collar, a leash with no dog attached, and lots of tears. You do the math.
Jovani was parked under a tree, on the far side of the parking lot.
Last time I'd seen Jovani cry was when his Dad died.
"He went really peacefully," I told Jovani, putting my hand over his. I told him how Tequila had died. I was very glad I had stayed, and I told him about what the vet said, how we should all be so lucky to go in such a manner. I felt as if I made Tequila's passing easier by being there, and making sure he didn't have any fear, any separation anxiety, as he passed on to the next world. Truly, there are many that do not pass from this world so peacefully.
In memory of Tequila Torres.
Born May 5, 1995.
Died May 26, 2007.
Rest in peace, Tequila.
Saturday, May 26, 2007
