In Memory of Skipper
It's almost the fourth anniversary of my Skipper's Death. I posted the folllowing on the Reader's Digest blog after reading a story about someone else's pet passing.
My Skipper, a miniature Schnauzer acted different that morning. Now, I think I should have known. But how could I? He slept in his recliner, a chair I'd bought him at a garage sale and placed in my bedroom for him. Every morning, when my alarm went off, he'd jump down and follow me into the bathroom, where he'd wait while I took my shower. That morning, for the first time in nearly eight years, he didn't. I called him. He came, reluctantly. He seemed tired. I joked with my husband that Skip wasn't feeling well. Stranger still - he didn't eat his breakfast dog food. Now, to understand how weird this is, you'd have to have known Skip. He scarfed every bowl of food like it was his last. But I put it down to his general malaise, and it didn't worry me. It should have.
That night when I got home, he could barely move. He stood still, weaving on his four little legs, his huge brown eyes confused and uncertain. He tried to take a step towards me, and couldn't. I screamed to my husband that Skipper had the same thing as Mandy, our little girl mutt who had died eight years earlier, shortly before we got Skip. He said that was impossible. Our vet had told her we should never have to go through that again. I rushed Skipper to the vet emergency clinic. Sure enough, he had the same thing. Hemolytic anemia, a disease where the white blood cells attack the red. The vet offered up a blood transfusion as a solution. $1500. But this was my Skip. How could I deny him a chance to live? Of course I said yes.
A lot of what happened after that is blurry. Makes me cry. They did the transfusion. I brought him home. Nursed him. Fed him the special canned food they gave me. Took him every morning to have his blood count done. He seemed to be improving. And when a young, rotating vet asked me why I was doing this to my dog, stating "Your dog is going to die." I was furious. I took my Skip to another vet. In the car he looked up at me. My husband said it was like he was telling me, it's all right Mom. The new vet, a stranger to me, was a woman. She told me gently that my little dog was suffering and it was time to let him go. When she said that I knew. I didn't want him to suffer.
By now his little chest heaved with his labored breathing, yet he still looked at me with love and trust shining in his brown eyes. How I loved that little guy. I held him while the vet gave him his shot. He sighed once and died. The vet didn't even have to give him the second shot to stop his heart. I think he was grateful to be put out of his misery. I spent a lot of money, but it's irreverant. He was my Skipper Doodle Dandy. It's been four years (September 27th,) but I miss him still.
My Skipper, a miniature Schnauzer acted different that morning. Now, I think I should have known. But how could I? He slept in his recliner, a chair I'd bought him at a garage sale and placed in my bedroom for him. Every morning, when my alarm went off, he'd jump down and follow me into the bathroom, where he'd wait while I took my shower. That morning, for the first time in nearly eight years, he didn't. I called him. He came, reluctantly. He seemed tired. I joked with my husband that Skip wasn't feeling well. Stranger still - he didn't eat his breakfast dog food. Now, to understand how weird this is, you'd have to have known Skip. He scarfed every bowl of food like it was his last. But I put it down to his general malaise, and it didn't worry me. It should have.
That night when I got home, he could barely move. He stood still, weaving on his four little legs, his huge brown eyes confused and uncertain. He tried to take a step towards me, and couldn't. I screamed to my husband that Skipper had the same thing as Mandy, our little girl mutt who had died eight years earlier, shortly before we got Skip. He said that was impossible. Our vet had told her we should never have to go through that again. I rushed Skipper to the vet emergency clinic. Sure enough, he had the same thing. Hemolytic anemia, a disease where the white blood cells attack the red. The vet offered up a blood transfusion as a solution. $1500. But this was my Skip. How could I deny him a chance to live? Of course I said yes.
A lot of what happened after that is blurry. Makes me cry. They did the transfusion. I brought him home. Nursed him. Fed him the special canned food they gave me. Took him every morning to have his blood count done. He seemed to be improving. And when a young, rotating vet asked me why I was doing this to my dog, stating "Your dog is going to die." I was furious. I took my Skip to another vet. In the car he looked up at me. My husband said it was like he was telling me, it's all right Mom. The new vet, a stranger to me, was a woman. She told me gently that my little dog was suffering and it was time to let him go. When she said that I knew. I didn't want him to suffer.
By now his little chest heaved with his labored breathing, yet he still looked at me with love and trust shining in his brown eyes. How I loved that little guy. I held him while the vet gave him his shot. He sighed once and died. The vet didn't even have to give him the second shot to stop his heart. I think he was grateful to be put out of his misery. I spent a lot of money, but it's irreverant. He was my Skipper Doodle Dandy. It's been four years (September 27th,) but I miss him still.
posted by Karen Whiddon at 9:25 PM
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