On Losing My Best Friend...

Yesterday (at 230am) I lost my best friend. Scratch, my dog of the past 12 years, died. After struggling through a day of work yesterday - one in which I sat restlessly in my office capable of doing nothing but think about Scratch and his last moments on Earth, I decided to take this morning off. I have no classes - just a few office hours I was supposed to do. But with no students on the schedule, I decided it best to take a day to heal.

So that's what I'm trying to do. Heal.

The house is utterly quiet. I miss the rattle of his collar - his constant scratching (that's where he got his name, afterall). I miss the "ker PLUNK" of him laying down on the hardwood floors and the sigh that came shortly thereafter. I miss his eyes, his crooked ears, and his curly tail (that always told us of his mood). I miss him saying, "hello". I miss his smile... and most of all I miss his companionship.

I've had a lot of dogs in my life, but I've never been as close to any of them as I was to Scratch.

Pooter.
Scooby Doo.
Bumble Bumm.
Daddy Dog.
Scratcheroomboni.
Poops.

Scratch had been having seizures for the past three months. The first one was intense - and probably harder on us than it was on him. After a series of blood work, the vet felt that he was okay - that it would be just something we had to deal with. We were given the option of taking him to Boise for a CT scan to see if there was a malignant tumor - but what good would that do. If there was, we'd only be more sad - knowing his time with us was ticking away and there was nothing we could do. So instead we opted NOT to know ... and to just continue to love him with all we have.

The seizures kept coming... about 7 to 14 days apart. They were relatively short by seizure standards: about 1-2 minutes in length. Each time, he'd recover... and we'd learned to laugh at the vision and balance disturbances that would result right afterwards.... it was kind of funny to see him run into the walls. OK.... really it wasn't, but if we could convince Scratch that it was funny, maybe he'd laugh, too instead of be scared.

Other than the tenseness during the seizure itself, he didn't appear to be in any pain. Sure, his hips had been bothering him for quite awhile (he was 12 afterall), but he had to be the happiest dog on the face of the planet otherwise. We spoiled him. In the last three months, he'd done it all.... Boise, Seaside, Jackpot... Island Park. That dog had THE LIFE.

And then came Monday.

Dad had taken 1/2 day off and we had to drive to Island Park to talk to a guy about our well. Mom and Scratch went along.

It was spectacular up there... 60 degrees... sunny.... and still snow. Scratch LOVED Island Park. that was HIS cabin. He sat on the deck... soaked in the sun... smelt the great smells that only IP could offer. He watched for his buddies Frisky and Clyde (two squirrels that live in the trees at our place). He laid on the snow. Mom went for a run... and right afterwards Scratchey got to go for a walk... without the leash. Those were just some of the things he loved so much about going to the cabin. A typically finicky, methodical and slow eater (I would be too if all I ever got was hypoallergenic potato flake dog food!), Scratch ate dinner at the cabin (leftovers from our last visit). He ate more in the car on the way home... and a third dinner once we got home to Pocatello that night. Yup. Three dinners. What a feast for the little guy.

At 10:00, the convulsions began. It was another short one. About 1:20... nothing too terrible. We stayed up with him for the next half hour or so... as we always did... just to make sure he was doing alright. Then, once he plopped down and went to sleep, so did we.

A little after midnight, we heard the rumble of another seizure. Brent got up and went out in the other room to be with him. To hold him... and to talk him through the ordeal. It was another short one... and Scratch got up and stumbled around. But then he had another one. And another. And another. And another.... 9 in a row.

After the 8th one I called the emergency line to the vet. Brent and I knew it was time.

We loaded Scratch in the car. I sat in the back seat with him and held him close.

It was 2am. The streets were bare. It was dark. The drive to the animal hospital was silent.

We got there and carried him in to the vet. By this time he hadn't seized for a good 20 minutes. We laid him up on the table and the vet convinced us that with some drugs, he could end the cluster of seizures he was having that night. Brent and I, sensing hope, agreed. The doctor went in the back and got two syringes ready.... phenobarbitol and diazepam (valium). He came back in the room.

Scratch looked at the doctor, looked at us... and then seized again.

He was telling us no. He was telling us it was his time to go.

I looked at Brent... and then the doctor and said, No. I think it's time. We need to let him go. This time the pain in Scratchey's eyes was too much. He was telling us he needed to go.

The doctor went back, got a new syringe of drug... and I left the room. Brent held Scratch as the doctor injected his front leg with the drug. I wept in the other room. Brent wept with Scratch.

Brent would later say that went Scratch passed, he felt a calmness and a peace - because for the first time in months, Scratch was able to finally relax.

So I sit here today. Convinced I'm supposed to go for a run on this gorgeous day, but not having the heart to do it. I sit here in this quiet house, looking and longing for my best friend. for his eyes. his ears. his tail. It sounds so cliche, but Scratch unconditionally loved me, and I unconditionally loved him.

I will miss him.