“Remoted” – Day 509 (Saturday)

When Moose was young in Tennessee.

The first few months Moose was with me, he never uttered a sound and I wondered if his vocal chords had been removed. Once he found his voice he used it. A lot. 

There were times I could hear his yappy barks of outrage coming from inside the house. When I tried to coax him outside with me, he would plant his paws and refuse to budge, or come outside, then bark to go back in two minutes later. It seemed he liked yelling at me more than being outside with me. 

A bark that sounded exactly like “Out, out” was a signal to go out. When he was younger, other talents in his arsenal included standing on his hind legs and twirling. He once stole a tomato that fell from a grocery bag onto Mom’s kitchen floor and then hid it behind a toss pillow on the couch.

Older Moose.

He was perky and energetic all the way up until he wasn’t anymore. Whether it was sudden or gradual is not clear. When we lived in Fitchburg we once hiked Mount Wachusett, which Winston missed due to a knee injury. Since moving to Lowell, both dogs stopped liking walks. Winston would hide when the leashes came out, Moose would refuse to leave the house.

Recent mobility issues prevented him climbing the stairs. This week, additional problems with his hind legs caused him to splat onto the floor on his stomach, or fall onto his side while trying to get out of his bed. The swollen glands in his neck became larger. He panted a lot and sometimes peed himself while sleeping, proving the absorbency and value of the Kidgets size 3 diapers from Family Dollar.

In his late-June appointment with Dr. Doom, she said “Moose is in a bad way.” I didn’t understand what that meant in terms of pain and body functions. Everyone I know who has dogs told me that I “would know when it was time,” and for a month I’ve been on high alert hovering over his every move.

This week, things accelerated. Thursday night was bad. Friday night was worse. He walked in circles and leaned on the walls. He squeezed into the small space between the wall and the dresser and the wall and the open bathroom door. He slithered into the space between the wall and bed with his head in the corner, then turned his head to wedge it between the box spring and the wall and let out an unfamiliar sound that was something between a cry and a howl. Then he went to the other side of the bed and repeated the routine. His breathe rattled in his lungs.

We got up at 5:00 this morning because there was no point pretending there would be more sleep. Moose was as quiet as his early days. The little guy whose favorite pastimes are eating and begging for more food wouldn’t eat his breakfast. When I called our regular vet earlier in the week for an appointment sooner than the one already set for next Friday, there were none available, and tech on the phone said refusing food would be a key sign to watch for.

The last paw print.

The recent weird behaviors, problems, and the sudden refusal of food all seemed to present a clear message and at 7:00 we left for the emergency vet. Moose let me carry him in his bed to the car and then into the veterinary hospital without making a sound. The compassionate team at the hospital helped to ease a very emotional and stressful situation. There were many tears during our goodbye. And all day. 

The double shot of grief and sadness of the past three days will soon reveal if excessive crying jags can result in actual dehydration. And Winston is wondering what is going on. 

In the annals of crappy weeks, this one tops the list.