Oreo: Noble Companion, Faithful Friend

My big dog Oreo died Monday, around five pm. We took her to the vet because after talking with him on the phone I thought we might get a few more days out of her. I was wrong. It was only selfishenss on my part to want her to be with us longer. She was definitely suffering. I didn’t see it, because she was such a stoic dog. She was always there for me.

I spent almost fourteen years with this animal. She was there for all sorts of events in my life. There were events in her life, too. She was shot with a BB Gun, run over by a car, and almost destroyed by order of City Council because she chased sheep. (It’s no fun going up before the local magistrate on behalf on one’s dog!)

I never understood how she managed as a desert dog. After all, she was a Border Collie, adopted from the pound in 1990 as a Christmas gift to my two sons. Silly me, I thought they would want to have a dog! Silly me, little did I know that it was I who wanted a dog.

In the early years it was difficult having a dog. I couldn’t afford a place to buy, and finding a place to rent with animals and kids was hard. We managed, though. Four years ago I bought a house and the dogs were so happy! No more on a chain to be outside. They had their own door! And a fenced yard. (Oh yes, dogs being plural, Lucie came along about a year after Orrie did. She is still with us, but she is confused. Her companion is gone. Mine too.)

Oreo had a stroke about a month ago, but she soldiered on nonetheless with Prednisone and Etogesic. (The miracle of modern science.) She quit eating last weekend, and Sunday she wouldn’t even drink water. Monday I called Dr. Bice, her Vet, and explained her symptoms. “I think she’s dying,” I told him. He’s a lovely vet, and suggested I bring her in to be examined. “Maybe we can IV some B vitamins into her,” he said. I was willing to spend whatever it took to make her comfortable. After all, she was my dog.

Her last ride in the back of the truck, and here she was sniffing over the edge. She must have thought she was going to the river. My husband and I, being the age that we are, and her being a big dog, snaked a throw rug under her, each carrying one side, to help her walk to the truck. It was then that I noticed she had messed herself. “This is it!” I thought to myself, but I kept hope.

Dr. Bice examined her and told us the bad news. “There’s something big and hard in her abdomen that shouldn’t be there.” He gave us the options, but none of them were good. “She’s a grand old lady of 95,” he said. “Not eating or drinking is a sign of nausea, and her problems run beyond her arthritis. I doubt she would survive surgery, but if that is what you choose, I will do it.”

We tried to pin Dr. Bice down, but he would have none of it. “She is your dog,” he said. “I’ll give you a few moments, call me when you have made your decision.”

I lifted her head in my palm and stared into her eyes. “Oh, Orrie! Oh brave dog!” She asked to be released. She had nothing left to give. Why couldn’t she just die in the yard in the night? Why did I have to make this decision? Oh, I know why. Because she had bravely, nobly been my companion and faithful friend for fourteen years. And it was my turn to make a decision.

I called Dr. Bice and told him that my husband and I thought the best thing to do for her was to let her go to sleep. He told us that that is exactly what happens. The medication he would shoot into the vein in her front paw was the same they used for surgery, but much more concentrated.

“Dogs live in the now,” he said. “They don’t remember the past, and they don’t know the future.”

I kissed her head, but was too much of a coward to be with her when she died. My husband said he would stay. I went to pay the receptionist, then went out by the truck to wait. There was no time at all. My husband was with me almost immediately.

“She sniffed twice, then put her head between her paws and was gone.” We cried. I’m still crying, but not as much as I was. My eyes have almost unpuffed.

Son John was over Sunday night and spent a great deal of time with her, because we knew in our hearts she wouldn’t have much longer.

I called son Wil to let him know of Oreo’s demise Monday evening and he, being also a wonderful son, brought his family over. My three and a half year old grandson Preston hugged me and hugged me, then he said, “I know what make you feel better Nana, we go feed wharses!” He ran to the refrigerator and got out carrots. We went outside. “Look, Preston,” I said. “The pink roses have started to bloom.” “Oh!” he said. “Oh, oh! Nana, I wuv woses!”

RIP Oreo, noble companion and faithful friend.

CKS/BL tridiot rating: perfect