12 December 2007
Ki passed last night. It was one of the most difficult, most fulfilling moments that I’ve had. And I feel terribly alone without him. He was my most honest, most direct companion for the past sixteen years. I loved him unreservedly. He more than returned the favor.
As I reported in an earlier post, John and I had been in California for a week. When we got back Ki had clearly taken a sharp turn for the worse. Neither John nor I were clear on what to do, but I wanted to see if we could nurse him along. By the following Monday he'd started eating pretty well, and I thought perhaps he had turned a corner and might stick around with us for a while. On Tuesday, though, he picked at his food in the morning. What I didn’t notice was that he completely stopped drinking. I tried tempting him with food throughout the morning, but to no avail.
In the middle of the afternoon yesterday he would get restless, circle for a moment, and then arch his back and cry just a bit. I couldn’t figure out if it was frustration at not being able to move better than he could, or if he was in pain. I had tons of calls that afternoon, and I fielded them as best I could between comforting him. He was here in my office for a good bit of the afternoon; I sensed that he wanted to be close to me. I wondered how well - or if - he could still see.
As the evening began he seemed fine. I did my meditation upstairs while Ki stayed with John in the back room. I came downstairs and did a little computing. John called me urgently. I found him on the floor with Ki in the back room. Ki had had another spell, only this one was much stronger and more painful. I sat down with him and I realized that this was the moment. Much earlier I’d prayed for a shaft of Artemis to dispel his pain and transport him if he fell into pain. I - and John - were to be that agent.
I hesitated a bit, wanting John to tell me what to do. Finally I picked up the phone and called our emergency vet hospital. I went over what had been happening with Ki, and I said I wanted to bring him out to be seen. The receptionist asked me how soon I might get there, and I told her we’d be there within half an hour.
I bundled Ki up in an old pink blanket against the cold. Just as he had done almost exactly two years ago when Ki had been badly bitten and almost died, John drove us to Wright Brothers Boulevard. Ki huddled in my arms, motionless. At a point I wondered if he might have passed silently, without warning. As we rolled up to the parking lot, Ki had another intensely painful episode. I muttered to John how glad I was that we were doing this now.
John grabbed Ki as I struggled with the ice that covered the parking lot like a skating rink. We got inside, and the receptionist showed us to an exam room. She did a history, took his temperature, and rushed to get a heating pad because he was so cold. Clearly he wasn’t able to regulate his body temperature any longer. She took the history to the vet on duty, Sarah Hansen. In the ten minutes or so before she came in we held Ki as he had another painful spasm. Dr. Hansen rushed in the room, and all my fears melted. She was incredibly gentle, kind, and deeply compassionate to Ki and to John and me.
We talked through everything that had gone on. She said that rapid weight loss is usually end-stage kidney disease or cancer. I said in either case we weren’t going to do anything dramatic. She nodded. I sensed that she was relieved that we had already understood what was happening. She said even if we admitted him they might be able to keep him going for at most a day or two - if we wanted that time. I shook my head.
“We’re on the same path, I think,” she said. John and I nodded, and she brought out a form to authorize euthanizing Ki. I signed it, checking off that I wanted a private cremation with the ashes returned to us.
“You can have as much time as you want,” she said.
“Let’s do it,” I said. I was worried about him having another spell.
She left to assemble the meds and to bring an assistant into the room. Tears were streaming down John’s face, dripping off his nose. I buried my head in Ki’s fur, and felt him leaving us. “You’ll be on your Buddha pillow,” I told him thickly. I kissed John, and we waited for Dr. Hansen to return.
She came back but she wasn’t able to find a patent vein. “He has old dog veins,” she said. We allowed her to take him and insert a IV line. After a few moments she came back, carrying him in blankets. “He was perfect,” she said.
“He’s always been a wonderful dog,” I said to her. “We’ve been together sixteen years.”
She prepared to give the injection, then hesitated as if she wanted a signal from me. I held Ki. Suddenly he became agitated again, and started to arch back in pain.
“Go, go, go!” I said. I held him tight against the pain as she injected the serum. His body was tightly clenched, then suddenly relaxed. I felt him slip away. “Go straight ahead,” I said to him under my breath.
For a moment - a very long moment - I held his soft warm body against my face. I let him gently fall back against the table and wrapped him in the blanket. He was utterly peaceful, almost as if he’d just fallen asleep and that he might awaken with my soft step in the room, ready to go for a walk with me.
“You’ve had him the entire sixteen years?” Dr. Hansen asked.
“Since he was two months old. We’ve walked together at least twice a day almost every day for all that time,” I said. “He was a wonderful companion. I wanted to do the best for him. That’s why we brought him tonight.” Her chin was shaking as tears streamed down my face. “Thank you so much,” I said.
“Was that what was happening earlier tonight?” she asked.
I nodded mutely.
“You did a very commendable thing,” she said. She opened her arms, and we hugged each other. John stood by me, eyes brimming with tears.
“Would you like a paw print?” she asked.
I never had thought of such a thing. “Oh, please, yes,” I said. She swept up his frail body, still swaddled, and gently took him away.
John and I walked to the lobby. My breathing was already easier. We were done. Ki had made it. And we’d done everything right - I have no regrets. The receptionist brought out a small circle of clay with his paw print in it. “It will dry slowly over the next few days,” she said. “We’ll call you when his ashes are ready.”
I paid her for their service, and I told her how deeply I appreciated them being there for us. John and I walked out into the frozen air. I piled into the Escape and let him drive me home.
The ground and trees shimmered as we drove home. It wasn’t tears; everything in sight was covered with a crystal coat of ice that reflected each ray of light.
“It’s a beautiful night,” John finally said as we came to the bridge across the Cedar River. “It’s all sparkly.”
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