My sweet boy
My poor little Cheetokins… he’s gone. He died in my arms. He’s gone and he took a piece of me with him.
I feel like I can’t breathe. I am not prepared to live in a world that doesn’t include Cheeto. It seems like such a joyless place.
He had another crisis of breathing on Thursday afternoon, so I rushed him to the vet for another breathing treatment, where they put him in an oxygen “cage”. I was concerned, but he wasn’t as bad as he was the week before, so I figured I’d drop him off and pick him back up a couple hours later, same as then. I tousled his mohawk and said “Love you, buddy. You’ll be feeling better soon, don’t worry.”
And then I left. I LEFT. I fucking left.
I LEFT because my sister was at home with the baby and needed to leave in 30 minutes. I left because I couldn’t sit in the back room with him, anyway. I left because I thought he was going to get some oxygen and everything would be okay, just like it was last time.
I called an hour later to check on him, and she told me that he wasn’t doing that well, that he was the color of mud. (I noticed that before I dropped him off—that his tongue wasn’t pink like normal, or even blue-tinged when he needs oxygen—it was flesh-colored. It was so odd that I told Brian about it on the phone, so I knew exactly what she was talking about.)
She told me that she’d given him some medication to help open up the airways and even started an IV to deliver medication. I said “What? Is he going to be okay?” I thought she was going to tell me that he needed to stay a few more hours.. overnight, maybe.
But she said she didn’t know…then she paused and said “Can you come in?”
I panicked. “Are you telling me that he’s so bad that you want me to come in?”
“Yes.”
I said I’d be right there, and flew upstairs to get the baby dressed. I was out of this house in less than 5 minutes and was FLYING down the back roads in to Lawrence. I had to check myself, because I kept creeping up to 80 mph and the baby was in the car and it was raining. I was sobbing, and saying “No, no, no, no, no…. not today, no, no, not today, I’m not ready!” I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was bargaining.
About ten minutes later, I was almost to Lawrence and I felt… a twinge of something. My heart leapt into my throat and my mouth suddenly went dry. I knew they were going to call. I dug my phone out of my pocket and stared at it. About 30 seconds later, they did. But my phone… it froze. It fucking froze, and I kept trying to hit the “accept” button, and nothing happened. I was frantically pushing the home button and also trying to reboot it, but it wasn’t responding at all. I was screaming, because I thought they were calling me to tell me he was dead. So I started another mantra: “No, no, he’s not dead. Not dead. No! If you can hear me, hang on, buddy, I’ll be right there. Mommy’s coming, I’m coming, please wait, please wait for me…”
Five or six minutes passed. My phone finally rebooted. I called the vet back. She said “He crashed… [inaudible] DYING, but we got his heart back, that’s the important thing. Are you almost here?”
I screamed “I’m coming, I’m coming… oh my god, I’ll be there in less than ten minutes!!!”
I couldn’t believe this was happening. My worst nightmare was coming true. I called Brian to tell him and they’d already called him, too. He was 30 minutes away. His voice was shaking and he was worried that I was going to get in a wreck on the way to the vet. I was worried he was going to get in a wreck. I also worried that neither of us would get there in time, and that Cheeto was going to die alone.
When I finally arrived, I yanked the baby out of the car seat and RAN into the vet’s office and to the back room. And then I saw my little buddy… he was lying there with a tube down his throat. He was listless, and barely breathing. I said “Cheeto! Oh my god, Cheeto, I’m here, honey! I’m here and I love you!” I think he got a little too worked up when he heard me, because he immediately started vomiting. She had to pick him up, and he was so limp. He didn’t even have the energy to hold his head up. I had to turn away for a second. Watching my baby vomit around a breathing tube was one of many things that day I wish I hadn’t seen.
They moved him to another table to hook him back up to a heart monitor, and they were taking his blood pressure and I was stroking his head and his ears and sobbing and telling him I loved him and I was so sorry I wasn’t there sooner, that I came as fast as I could. I leaned down and kissed his head, and they told me his heart rate was coming down, and to keep doing what I was doing, because I was calming him. I was looking into his pretty little golden brown eyes and he was looking back at me. I know he could see me. But he looked so sad. He just looked so tired, and so sad. I knew. I was sobbing “He’s not coming back from this, is he? This is it.”
The vet looked at me and said “I don’t know. We need to wait and see if he recovers.” I remember thinking that I hoped Brian would make it in time. I didn’t care what the vet said, I could feel the life seeping out of him. I don’t know how I knew, but I knew. He was so, so tired of fighting. His little body was shutting down and my heart was breaking.
There was a flurry of activity that I was only halfway paying attention to. I don’t remember taking my eyes off Cheeto. One of our friends arrived and told me that Brian was on his way. Someone took Jack and I knew he was crying for me. I remember feeling torn that he needed me, but Cheeto needed me more. I needed to keep Cheeto calm so he didn’t struggle against his breathing tube. My regular vet came back and hugged me tightly and then left without saying a word. The emergency vet said he had a lot of gas in his belly. They were putting more medication in his IV. I was just petting him, and whispering to him, and kissing him. Telling him he was a good dog, the coolest little dog in the WORLD, and I was so, so lucky to be his momma. I thanked him for being my best friend for so long, for loving me unconditionally, and I hoped he spent every day of his life knowing how much he was loved. I told him I was really sorry that he was going through this, that I was sorry I wasn’t able to help him or cure him, and I hoped he wasn’t in any pain. I also told him daddy was on his way, and would be there in a couple minutes, just hang on… just hang on…
And thankfully, Brian arrived. And he, too, was struck with the horror of it as soon as he walked in. He talked to Cheeto, pet him, cried… he took Jack up front for a few minutes. We didn’t want Jack to see any of this, but he won’t let anyone but us touch him. I remember Cheeto tried to get up a couple times, but of course we couldn’t let him. They came back a few minutes later, and our friend was standing there talking to Brian and I remember something in the air changed and the room seemed to stand still for a second. I caught Brian’s eye real quick and shook my head with more despair in my heart than anyone should ever have to experience.
A couple seconds later, I don’t know how to explain it, but I saw the life leave Cheeto’s little body. I didn’t see his spirit or anything, but I saw the life leave his eyes, and I knew he wasn’t in there anymore. I knew it before his eye started twitching back and forth from a seizure. I knew it before his belly stopped moving up and down. I knew it before they actually told me he arresting again. And I knew while they were injecting more epi that he wasn’t coming back.
The vet tech looked at me and said “Do you want us to continue?”
It felt like a lifetime, but it was only a few seconds. Somehow I made the right decision and said no. I didn’t want him to keep suffering like that. And I wailed. I wailed for a solid five minutes. I had to turn my back, because he was twitching and moving and gagging and they were telling me that he was already gone and these were just reflexes. I already knew. I saw the MOMENT he died, just like I’d felt it the first time in the car. Didn’t anyone else?
When I finally calmed down for a few seconds and they had removed the tube from his throat, I had to whisper to him some more. I had to tell him it was okay, and that I hoped he was breathing easier now and his body didn’t hurt so much from having to work so hard pushing the air in and out. I told him I loved him more than anything in the world, and I always would. I told him when he got to heaven to go find my previous dogs Jack and Cedrick, because they’d play with him. And to find my grandma, because she’d watch out for him until I got there. I told him a lot of things. He’d heard it all before. At times, when I chose to recognize the fact that he was 12 years old, I’d cuddle with him on the bed and allow myself to think he might not be here forever, and I’d sob and tell him all sorts of stuff. He probably didn’t need to hear any of it, because he KNEW how well-loved he was. But I needed to sit there with him for a while and I needed to say it. Just in case.
After a while, someone came in and gave us our options. Take him home and bury him, cremate him and get his ashes, or they said they could “just take care of the body”. He wasn’t my puppy anymore, he was a “body”. His poor, broken little body. I knew I could never take him home. Not like that. I wanted his ashes. I don’t know what I’m going to do with them, but I want them. I’ll decide later. She hugged me.
I asked her how I was supposed to just get up and walk out of there. How am I supposed to just leave him lying there. She rubbed my shoulder.
I stayed for what felt like forever… until he stopped feeling warm, and then I knew I had to go. I had already seen too much. I was already going to have to work really hard to get those awful last moments out of my mind. I wanted to remember his soft, floppy ears and his funny little mohawk and his velveteen fur. I didn’t want to feel his body start to stiffen.
I went up front and gave Brian some time alone with him. And when he came out, we just sat there in shock for a few minutes. It had all been so sudden, it almost didn’t feel real. But not even my overactive imagination could have conjured up this. This was too awful to imagine.
I looked at the clock. It was about the time Brian should have been picking him up and bringing him home. I had told Cheeto on the way to the vet that when he got home that night, he and I were going to go root on the bed and spend some alone time together cuddling. I was glad we had that last car ride together, though. Just the two of us. And for some reason, he got up in my lap and sat on my left knee between the door and the steering wheel like he used to, and I stroked his head.
My scruffy baby
My sweet, sweet baby. I miss him so much. The house is so empty without him. I am trying to come to grips with the fact that he’s gone. I’m having “phantom dog syndrome”. I see him everywhere I look, and yet nowhere at all...
When I get up off the couch, I look down to see where he is so I don’t step on him. When I’m feeding the baby, I look down expecting him to be sitting under the high chair, waiting for food that will inevitably drop. When I’m outside, I expect to see him running around and sniffing the trees and bushes. If I’m in the bedroom, my eyes automatically wander to the spot in the closet where he liked to sleep. If I open the pantry, I expect his nosy little butt to be right there, checking to see if there was any food around the trash can. If I’m doing the dishes, I expect him to come running over and lick all the dirty silverware. If I’m cooking at the stove, I expect him to be under my feet. Every time food hits the floor, I weep as I bend down to pick it up, all because my furry little vacuum cleaner isn’t there to suck it up anymore.
When we leave the house, I look up to the window by the door and expect to see his little face looking out at us. When we come back and he’s not at the usual spot wagging his tail to greet us, it makes my heart ache. When I go to bed at night, I always pause in the kitchen like I’m forgetting something. But I’m not forgetting— I’m remembering that he’s gone, and that I can’t feed him, give him his Benadryl, and let him go outside like I have every single night for 12 1/2 years.
Whenever we were in the house together and I hadn’t seen him for an hour or two and wasn’t sure where he was, I’d say “Cheeeeeeeeto, where are youuuuuu?” and he’d amble over to me with his head cocked like “Here I am, mom. What’s up?” I would give anything to be able to do that right now, and see his scruffy little face again.
He’s so much a part of my life that the world feels alien without him. I’m really not sure how to function. I know at some point that I WILL be okay, but I also know that not a day is going to go by where I’m not going to desperately miss him, and it’s going to be many months before I won’t shed any tears. I know this because of the grieving process I went through when I lost my grandma, who was also my best friend for a very, very long time. I’m unlucky enough to know that you never get over things like this…not really. The loss is so great that it lingers with you forever.
I am glad that he’s not hurting anymore. The past couple of years have been very hard on him, and his occasional night coughing had escalated to the point where he was pretty much coughing all the time. Even when he would be lying there resting, he was still working pretty hard to push the air in and out. It was forceful enough so that you could hear him exhaling from six feet away. Having had coughing spells in the past when I’m sick, I know that after two or three days of coughing, your ribs hurt like hell. Can you imagine the pain of coughing on and off for two years? Combine that with osteoarthritis, and pain was probably an everyday occurrence for Cheeto. I am glad that he is finally free of that.
But the emptiness… the emptiness in my house and in my heart is the worst.
And when I close my eyes and relieve the bad moments, I have to try and make myself stop and try to remember something funny or happy. I have millions of memories to draw from—he was the most amazing dog I have ever known. I think that even as he was dying, he was trying to please us. I think he hung on the past few weeks until I realized that there really ARE worse things than death, and that I didn’t want him to continue suffering in pain just because I felt like I couldn’t deal without him.
On the day he died, just a few hours before, I posted some of those thoughts on Facebook. I had just come to those realizations, you know what I mean? I couldn’t bring myself to go there before. I keep wondering if he was waiting and waiting for me to get there, and when I finally did, he knew he could go. He was a very empathetic dog… if I was upset, he’d lay his head on my knee and “hug” me.
I told Brian yesterday that he chose the BEST 12.5 years to be in my life. He came into my life at the PERFECT time. Right around the time that my grandma died, and he was there for many, many sobfests afterwards when I had no one else to lean on (I hadn’t met Brian yet). He was with the two of us through the decade that we spent together without a human baby, and just cherished our little furbaby. And cherish him we did. I honestly can count on one hand the people I know who love their dog as much as we do. Everyone SAYS they love their pets… but do you know anyone else who flew home a couple days early from their honeymoon because they were heartsick and missed their dog? Yeah. I didn’t think so. 
Taken just a month ago...
And now… I won’t ever say there’s a perfect time to LEAVE, obviously. However, he did wait until after we had Jack, almost like he KNEW we would have no choice but to keep it together. I am so glad that we had over a decade together with Cheeto before we had a human baby. But I’m also really glad that he was able to meet Jack, and play with him, and shower him with kisses. Cheeto loved the baby so much. And Jack was so gentle with him. They really did love each other. I know Jack won’t remember him, but someday I can show him the pictures and the video of his first doggie.
That funny little orange dog brought me SO much joy and laughter. I guess I can understand that when you love someone that deeply, the grief over losing them will be just as strong. But there have been several times the past couple of days where I’ve felt like it’s too much, like I won’t be able to make it through.
Heartbreaking...
Especially when I keep discovering things that I can’t bear to think about. Like his food bowl. My god, Cheeto was never far from his food bowl. He carried that thing around like Linus with his blanket. He’d put his head on it and use it like a pillow. He’d bring it to bed with him. He’d bring it to you, drop it at your feet, and look up at you like “Food now?” Even if he had just eaten five minutes earlier. He ALWAYS acted like he was starving. Food trumped ALL with Cheeto.
Or his football. This little pink and purple monstrosity that we’ve had for YEARS. We kept buying him toy after toy—he has a toybox that most small children would envy—but he never really gave a shit about any of them. He’d play with them for a few minutes, but that football? That was HIS football. He’d grab it, squeak it three times, and then root around on the bed with it. That was his signal that he wanted to play. And we’d bounce his little butt on the bed, throw the ball, and chase him around the house. He did that again a couple weeks ago after being on the Previcox. When he was pain-free long enough to jump up and down off the bed and run around like he used to. I remember being elated that he was acting like a puppy again, and how glad I was that I finally found something that helped him feel better.
The worst might be his little collar. There is nothing more heartbreaking than a collar that’s not attached to a dog. It’s just… it’s just too much.
We are trying to get out of the house as much as possible and distract ourselves. Do fun things with Jack, who might be the only one on the planet right now that can bring either of us any joy. I switched the desktop image on my phone to one of Cheeto. Jack picked up my phone yesterday and said “Chee!” I thought I was going to die. I feel like I am going to be swallowed up by the sadness.
I miss him.
Today is Prematurity Awareness Day. Prematurity has been escalating steadily and alarmingly over the past two decades. In fact, the rate of premature birth increased by 36 percent between the early 1980s and 2006. One out of eight babies is born prematurely in the United States. This trend and the dynamics underlying it underscore the critical importance and timeliness of the March of Dimes Prematurity Campaign. 
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