My mom Belva and I are sitting on the floor of the vets office. Our hands on Lily as she rests. The vet’s assistant brought in blankets. She’s put an IV into Lily’s arm. She tells us the vet will be in soon.
Lily is fourteen. She’s tired and she has been hurting for awhile. Teeth extractions, UTI infections, challenges with stairs, a cough that’s not controlled, vomiting, and more.
But she is strong. Mom comments on that fact that Lily has suffered a lot over the past couple of years. She can withstand pain and not complain. She just powers through it—the way women power through things, at least in the collective experience of me and my mom.
We had to bring Lily in today because she’s had this deep cough all night and it won’t go away. Mom thought maybe she had inhaled a foxtail. That happens here in the mountains of Northern California.
Mom described their night together as Lily desperately looking her in the eyes and pleading for relief. Neither Belva nor Lily got much sleep. They just powered through.
So this afternoon, we are at the vet.
Lily wags her tail first thing in the morning. She’s pleased to to be around her pack. I’m part of that. I’m the wacky aunt that shows up from time to time. I love scritching her neck, ears, and belly. She’s happy to see me.
That said, she clearly isn’t seeing much. Not even me as I sit right in front of her face at this moment. Her eyes are cloudy. Her third eyelid on the left side is super lazy. Something is wrong.
Thus, this visit to the vet.
The vet is dispassionate and matter-of-fact. She says this could be a foxtail. It could also be a tumor of some kind, maybe cancerous.
So, what do we want to do?
The clinic where we are doesn’t have the capacity for an MRI (or whatever they do that is something similar to an MRI or C-SCAN for dogs).
The vet says there is a clinic an hour and a half away with a scanner. We can bring her there if they have room. Mom asks if they have room at that clinic and what the cost would be. The vet leaves to check it out.
We keep our hands on Lily.
Mom tells me that she and my step-dad Herbert had an agreement about taking care of older dogs that had lived a good life. It was financial. They’d spend $3,000. Anything beyond that was too much.
Herbert died last year.
He was a difficult human for me. He was argumentative and entitled and so sure he was right that he could never hear another opinion—most especially from a woman and even more especially from a girl that was in his life since she was 14 years-old.
I was 59 when he died.
Back to our hands on Lily.
The vet comes in with a quote from the other clinic. It’s $8,000. Well beyond the Belva and Herbert agreement.
The vet says if we don’t want to go to there, she can do an X-ray in this clinic. They can put a scope up Lily’s nose and see what they find that way. It’s not as perfect as a MRI/C-SCAN/WTAF for dogs situation, but it is something. They may be able to diagnose what is going on for Lily from there and put together a plan.
Mom asks what the cost would be. Depending on cost, we could leave Lily here, get her hydrated and comfortable, and come back tomorrow to talk about next steps.
The vet comes back with the quote.
It is $2987.53 for the initial scan.
Mom and I break out into laughter. WTAF?! The ghost of Herbert just showed up like an asshole and put a number in our face so close to $3,000 and said:
“Make your choice.”
(Did I mention that Herbert was difficult and argumentative? Even after death FFS!)
My mom has always had dogs in my experience of her.
I had dogs with her too.
Our first dog was Weenie. She was a Dachshund. I got to name her. She looked like a hot dog, so I called her Weenie. She was the first dog I watched give birth. I still have a strong memory of looking into that box with all those squirmy weenies.
We left Weenie behind when we moved from Georgia to California. I was four.
My first Californian dog was Brownie. She was brown, so I named her Brownie. She was a ‘Collie-cross-a-Cocker.’ That’s what I remember my dad saying in his Southern accent when I asked him what kind of dog she was.
As a kid, I thought that was a breed. It rolled off my tongue.
Someone would ask: “What kind of dog is that?”
And I’d say: “Acolliecrossacocker” and then move along my merry path.
Apparently she was part Collie and part Cocker Spaniel—basically a mutt, but clearly Acolliecrossacocker in my kid mind.
She was awesome! Fluffy and big and bouncy and playful. When we had yard space in our house in Sunnyvale, CA she’d run around, play catch, grab frisbees out of the air, and snuggle at the end of the day. I could lay on top of her and listen to her heartbeat.
We added Jude to the mix at some point. Jude was my Uncle Fred’s dog. Fred was studying Marxist Economics at Stanford and couldn’t have his dog anymore at this point in his life.1 Jude was a big dog with some kind of skin condition. He was hairless and blue because you could see all of his veins through his skin. I loved Jude too, boney and itchy as he was.
When we moved to our next house in Palo Alto a few years later we had a pool. There was no room for dogs to roam. The backyard was concrete. So, mom and dad had to find new homes for Brownie and Jude. I don’t have any memory of where they went. They were just gone at some point.
My focus at that point moved to my cat, Shadows.2 I had the comfort of an animal that was exclusively mine in this transition. Cats became my go-to loves. Dogs were still potentially around, but just not today.
When I was 14 and my parents divorced, I moved to Chicago with mom and Herbert. Almost instantly they got a dog. Presumably for me. This dog was a Springer Spaniel that Herbert’s brother brought from Germany to keep me company.
I named her Gucci because I had a Bougie boyfriend at the time and he thought that would be a great name. I had never had a Bougie boyfriend before and I wanted him to like me, so I let him name the dog. Still, Gucci wasn’t my dog. She was theirs. And she was named by someone else.
I mostly lived in my room with my cat Shadows at that time and walked that dog Gucci every night because it was my job.
Gucci was followed by so many dogs as Belva and Herbert moved around the world. They lived in Menlo Park and Boston and Tokyo and Australia and they always had their dogs. Mostly Springers and Brittanys.
There was Willie and Nelson. Brittany siblings that lived with them in California and then moved with them to Australia. Both dogs survived the travel and lived almost two decades. Nelson was the only one that returned with them to the US.
When they moved back, there was a Blue Tic Coon Hound, Winston, they adopted. That dog was so big and so skittish, but was loved by them and got to live out his best life in their space.
And then there was Henry. He was a wanderer. They brought Henry in when they moved to Amador County and he loved the free space and the fresh air. He would escape their 25 acres whenever he could and just run wild. Neighbors would find him and bring him back. I think the longest stint that he spent in the wild was six months.
When he was home, he was the loviest cuddle bug. Sweet, kind eyes and always up for snuggles. He’s buried on their property under a tree.
There was also Max. Max was part of Lily’s line and Max was an asshole—a really aggressive dog. Max was Herbert’s dog. Max died a year before Herbert did. His ashes live in the box where Herbert’s ashes live. Sometimes mom walks by them and says hi or chastises Herbert for some past assholery.
There was also Lucy, part of Max and Lily’s line. She was sweet but a lot to handle as a puppy. Most especially as Herbert was dying and mom couldn’t take care of much more than dealing with those end life situations.
Lucy is now with a good friend of moms and is living her best life on acres of land.
I think Lily might be the last dog. And that is so sad.
That is why I am sitting here across from my mom, our hands on Lily’s warm body as she softly breathes in and then relaxes and lets go.
This is goodbye. It’s time to let her rest.
After today, the house will be different.
Love doesn't end when a heartbeat stops. It just settles in a corner of your body and becomes part of how you love the next being that crosses your path.
Fred Moseley is kind of a bad ass and a leading scholar today on Marxist Economic theory, so I get that a dog at that time might have taken away from study time.
You can check out my story Shadows to Shadow if you want to find out more about that.
That last paragraph is so moving. And true. Love doesn't end when a heartbeat stops.
I'm sorry about Lily. She was very well loved, and this a moving tribute to her and all the pups and cat.
there's something so haunting about a house that is used to dogs being empty of dogs. My parents always had dogs. Their first "kids" were poodles named Happy and Tidbit. Their last pups, a pair of schipperkes named Maya and Shadow died within two months of each other during covid. All my parents' dogs lived to be over 18. Miss Tique lived to 21!
Mom says no more dogs. She doesn't want to have a dog outlive her, even though I have promised to take whatever dog they have.
My dad is lonely for a dog now. He walks all the neighbor dogs who will let him. If my mom dies before him, the first thing I will do is get him a dog.
I feel your sadness.