My father’s dog, a spunky chihuahua named Zoose, crossed The Rainbow Bridge on Valentine’s Day, 2022.
The dog had been ill for several days, and I kept thinking he could get in to see the vet. But alas, he had to go to an emergency clinic.
He was diagnosed with congestive heart failure, pancreatitis, and something called hemorrhagic gastroenteritis. After spending most of the day and almost a thousand dollars, he came home with a care regimen, plenty of meds, and a dire prognosis.
On top of this, my father is a sub-acute rehabilitation facility, and was told by 911 that he could no longer live upstairs. Meaning I had someone coming over that evening to help start the process of moving my father’s stuff from upstairs to the main floor.
Yes, the same main floor that is already a hoarder’s nightmare because it has all of my stuff that couldn’t be upstairs because he moved in, and that my disabled self hasn’t had the ability to sufficiently deal with.
Thankfully some of the hoard was able to go upstairs. But. I wanted to focus on Little Zoose. My helper, however, needed me to know what to get done, and thought she was helping by keeping me active and not focused on his needs.
For my part, I was so exhausted and mentally past the ability to think or decide anything, even what chair to sit on, simply went along.
This meant that not only was unable to give Zoose the love and attention he needed that evening, but I also was too exhausted to give him the every-two-hour care he needed, and slept through a couple checkpoints.
But he wanted to live, and by morning had rallied to actually seeming to be better. Looking at his morning meds confused. It seemed like an awful lot, especially for a frail little doggy. And yet every time I called the emergency vet who said to call with questions, all they wanted to do was have him brought in to their hospital, not giving me any answer.
So I gave him the first course of medications. About an hour later, he suddenly took a major turn for the worst.
My bestie did much research for me, and discovered that two of his medications (two formulations of the same thing) were actually contra-indicated for his situation. And even if it was a good fit, it shouldn’t be taken with the other meds prescribed.
Quite simply, these emergency vets gave him the wrong meds, and stated that they should all be given at once, which in effect overwhelmed his body, and he died.
The good and the bad news is that my soul spilt, pouring out all the hurt, anger, and frustrations that had been building up for years. And it all came out at once, scaring the dogs outside the bathroom, wondering what could possibly be going on.
I gave the other two dogs, TazMonkey and Squiggles, a chance to sniff the body to know why their friend wasn’t around anymore, which seems to have helped them avoid that whole depressed doggy thing so many get when losing another pet in the household.
But. I got to tell dad, the man in the hospital for a heart attack (his third this year) and a bout of “chronic acute congestive heart failure,” whatever the heck that means, that his doggy was dead. My father never got to say goodbye to his little Zoose.
The good news is that Squiggles has made it quite clear from day one that she wants to be dad’s doggy. He, unfortunately, thought she was too big and bouncy, even at her advanced age. So rather than take time to bond with and train the dog who wants to be his, he got a different dog. This, of course, caused some stress between these two pups.
That said, when he comes back from sub-acute rehab (his second stay already this year), she’ll be his doggy. He’s already talking about Squiggles as his doggy, and wants her to come up to the care facility for visits.
So goodnight, little Zoose. Please know that your person is in capable paws.