All weekend I watched my eldest dog, you know the one I called Betty Ford as she was on a steady dose of narcotics and anti-inflammatory to keep her glued together, as she struggled more and more.
Each time she began to cough, I knew in my heart her time was coming to an end.
Our journey together began when I picked her out as a puppy at the St. Francis Animal Rescue way the fuck out in Scarborough on a cold January day. I was working at MAC Cosmetics at the time at the Queen St. location.
I hadn’t set out to get a puppy; I really wanted an older, and trained dog. Instead I did the opposite, and it was a lot of work.
Since the dog before her that I left with my ex was an abused shelter animal, I showered “Jo” with lots of love as these innocent souls should never have to know fear from their owners.
Within the last couple weeks her coughs were becoming more frequent, soft sounding with a wheeze. Her breath was rapid, and the act of going out into the hallway had her looking as if she had just run a marathon. Yet, she still had her happy stoic personality who loved people – especially strangers – it was a very gay relationship, she needed to spice up her social life I guess.
Within her first year she had been to Montreal, and taken to so many different places that she really became the community dog, happy no matter where she was. A sharp contrast to Buster who plays out the “Sophie’s Choice” moment when I leave.
Through thick and thin I vowed I’d take care of her no matter what. The bonds with these animals for me were not disposable when the tough times arrived.
And they did. Living with Mr. Manson - the sickest man I’d even met, and well, in my way I was probably his sickest, as I chose to stay and move in with him. The crazy crystal, the fighting, the abuse. No matter how insane it got from the Tina, GHB overdoses and emergency visits etc. I always managed to do two things, take Jo out to pee, and remove my contact lenses.
The night I fled, Jo was hiding in the closet. Here a black lab cross, hiding in a closet. I grabbed my stuff and took off to save myself from killing myself in this relationship.
My life as escort soon began and I was traveling, and partying a lot. And I mean a lot. Much of my time was spent in New York, and Amsterdam. Yet, I always had great people to care for her. When I got back, my health was run into the ground and I became a recluse only to see the outside world when ordering food from GroceryGatway.com, doctors appointments, or renting movies.
During the bad times, Jo always knew when I felt sick. She’d jump on the bed and lay down curling head into me to cuddle and remain there for hours as I fought off a fever. She always knew when things weren’t going right.
Over the course of the last 12 years, she has been the only source of continuity for me, and at times, when I felt so lonely she was the only companionship I had, often for weeks at a time.
Last Saturday I did all the research I need to in order to know what was going on with her. Each cough I imagined her heart being enlarged, and edema in the lungs. That day I made an appointment to see the vet to talk about her; I knew that her time has come.
The one thing I didn’t want to do was spend a lot of money on diagnostics. Once there, yesterday morning, I decided that we should at least do some x-rays.
What I instinctively knew turned out to be correct, but only worse. She was in the throws of congestive heart failure. Her lungs where so full of fluid that she was drowning and when placed on her side for the x-ray, she turned blue and they had to give her oxygen.
“You see here,” the vet said while showing me the x-ray. “This area should be all dark, but it’s all white due to fluid, it’s extremely bad. Here is where her heart is pressing up on her trachea causing her to cough.”
Upon making the decision, I could feel the tears well up. “You know, I’ve never had to do this before.”
“You haven’t?” she said with a sorry look and came over to give me a hug.
We went into the other room, laid a nice soft blanket down on the table. It was so fast, that when I thought she was just being sedated, she really was dying, in my arms and in a matter of seconds.
I’d always been told there were two shots. Looking at her I kept wondering, “Is this it?”
The sub-theme to this is that ever since my diagnosis 22 years ago in the age of no drugs and everyone dying, I was terrified of death. I never watch movies where the characters died from diseases like “Terms of Endearment” or if the character knew their death was coming. I just couldn’t do it.
How was I going to watch essentially my best friend die? This hit at the very core of my fear. For a long time I wondered if I could even be in the room with her.
I knew I had to though. This had been set in motion, and just as I was there for her no matter what in life, I had to be for her final moments.
Afterwards I took off her leash, and gave her a one last good-bye.
I’ll always remember her as the condom-obssessed eating dog leading to not so great moments of trying to grab one a dangling from her ass before any other park dwellers could see. Thus, leading me to the conversation stopping line, “She’s had more condoms in her than I have!”
The rest of the day I just felt numb.
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