So Scully died Memorial Day Weekend. There, I said it. Peeled the band-aid off quick. I figured I’d have to tell you guys sooner or later, and I’ve been thinking about it every day. But I’ve been putting it off.
I’m mostly ok. I thought I was totally ok, but when I attempted to clean out Scully’s cage yesterday, burst into tears and couldn’t finish because I didn’t want the kids to see me and set them off again… I realized I wasn’t…totally ok. So I might as well get this blog over with and move on to happier topics.
She had stopped eating about a week before I took her to work. The vet part of me knew things were getting bad, I could smell it in her breath, that uremic odor of kidney failure. However, the pet owner part of me figured that since she still got up and followed me everywhere, and she still ate peanut butter and jelly with gusto, she was ok.
I cooked her this chicken/rice/sweet potato goulash in the crock pot. She picked at it. Systematically removing all the sweet potatoes. I spoon fed her. She reluctantly ate.
But she still came around every morning when I made the kids PB&J sandwiches. Waiting for her share of crust. Which she readily ate.
So the pet owner won out and she was deemed “ok”.
But my husband and I were scheduled to go to St. John for our 15th wedding anniversary trip. Back to the location of our honey moon.
I brought all 3 dogs to work to board, like it was just any other trip. For the first time ever, Scully didn’t want to go in. I had to carry her.
I was still in denial. I had Dr. Rogers run blood work on her, “just to see where she was”. I didn’t say bye or make any “arrangements” because I didn’t want to jinx her…I’m supersticious that way. We would only be gone a few days.
I got her blood test results on the way to the airport. My cutoff for hopeless prognosis on creatnine (a toxin that your kidneys are supposed to clear) was 12, Scully’s was 15. I think that was the highest I’d seen on any dog.
But she didn’t look that bad, so I asked Dr. Rogers to please hook her up to IV fluids to try to save her. Maybe she was just dehydrated (even though the vet part of me noticed that her urine production had gone down indicating her kidneys were shutting off). This was Friday, we’d be home Monday. I gave them my Mom’s number, in case I was unreachable and anything happened.
Just keep her alive’ til Monday.
So I could say what I was afraid to say…goodbye. So the kids could say goodbye.
We were eating dinner at Zozo’s, the best Italian place on the island Friday night. My Mom called my husbands cell (I had left mine at home, probably in a subliminal attempt to avoid any bad news).
Scully had taken a turn for the worse. She had grown very lethargic, and was starting to have petit seizures. I spoke with Dr. Rogers and she said it was time. So I gave the ok, from a thousand miles away. AMCOP technician and our house sitter Carmen came to be with her in the end. She told her we loved her….
For what it was worth. I couldn’t help but think I’d abandoned her when she needed me most. Scully lived to be with me, to protect me. What did I do when she was so sick? Skipped off the Caribbean, that’s what I did.
Made her lose her will to live, I did.
“Dogs plan things”, my sweet neighbor, Holly, said when I confided in her. I thought about that. Scully had been holding it together despite being terribly, terribly sick, for my benefit. She was just a disaster, but she never let on. Hauling herself around to keep me in sight.
Maybe she was waiting til I was gone so I didn’t have to see her suffer.
Maybe she protected me til the end.
I think I’m going to believe that.