I lost my best friend the other day.
So stuff hasn’t been going so well for me. Work, marriage, my future, etc. No need to bore everyone with the details, it just suffices to say that things supremely suck.
But I’ve always had my dog.
He is a basset hound. He was four years old and the dog of my wife when I married her a bit over seven years ago. He has since consistently been the pillar of our lives. We had no children, only Gordon. No matter how we felt about each other, we loved Gordon so much that there was too much love around for anything to be too bad. He was generally a lazy boy, being a basset hound, and he was a runt always eager to make sure that he had contact and love at all times. It was impossible to sit or lie down without him lying up against you. No matter how much [censored] sucked he was always letting you know it was okay.
He was the healthiest dog ever for his age. Our vet was astounded, declaring him in the best shape of any dog that she had ever seen anywhere near his years. There is something hilarious about seeing a basset hound, or at least Gordon, in play when he chose to move about. He would do 360s in the air and his ears would go flying in all directions. He never showed his years, always alert and acting like the world was his play-thing. He was ever alert for the local firecracker or delivery guy, ready to sniff out anything he might find useful. You could walk him for an hour and go twenty feet; there was too much to smell. All the local kids knew him because of his love for children. He looked so silly, and acted so loving, that it was impossible not to fall in love with him. Even our friends, who knew him well, cried when he died.
My wife and I went to Chicago a few weeks ago. We left Gordon with a boarding place here in Manhattan. They had sofas and Gordon loved playing with the other dogs; it was like camp for him. His friend, also a basset, Hoover was there.
When we got back he was not the same. We didn’t know if it was his hip, or back legs, or stomach, but he didn’t like to move. The vets had no answer.
Whatever was wrong with him, he seemed to recover two weeks later, at my 31st birthday party. I called family to tell them that is was the best birthday present I had ever received. He hung out on the roof-deck and loved seeing all the friends he knew so well, and especially like eliciting affection out of the newcomers (and probably some grilled munchies).
That was a Saturday. By Monday morning something was wrong.
It was about 5:00 am. He was upset. As time went on, he grew larger in the gut and tried to vomit, but nothing came out.
I knew what it had to be. He had bloat. Bloat, or gastric dilatation-volvulus (GDV) to vets, usually only happens to long dogs. Their stomach twists at the front and back, not allowing any air, food, or liquid to pass through. The stomach expands and kills the dog; the dog may have as few as 30 minutes to live.
I desperately called dog-chauffeurs and ambulances and vets. With none to help, I found out that a 24-hour emergency room for pets existed on 15th and 5th avenue—too far away to walk. I ran for a taxi.
Taxis don’t take dogs. I got in a taxi and waited for him to drive. Only then did I tell him what he had to do: he was getting $50 and we were taking my dog to the vet. He reluctantly complied.
When I ran back to my apartment to grab Gordon his condition had progressed. He was unable to move, and his stomach was the size of a beach ball. I picked him up and ran outside, ran to the cab with my dog. He could only move his head and eyes, and he was relaxed. He knew that I was going to save him. His only goal in the taxi was to have his head against my lap, to know that it was going to be okay.
As we drove to the vet I told the driver the situation. He understood. He ran the red lights. He pounded on the door of the vet, nearly breaking the glass, at five in the morning screaming that we needed help. I knew Gordon would have his effect on this man, just like he would on any other man. We had another person willing to do anything to help.
We arrived in time. They released the excess gas and fluid from his stomach. I signed the papers for surgery.
Eventually I reconsidered.
I was told that he would have to have any parts of organs that had lost blood removed: his stomach, his spleen, whatever. His stomach would be stapled to the wall of his abdomen to prevent it from occurring again. Maybe half the dogs didn’t make it.
My dog was a wimp. A lovable wimp. He rolled over, outside, if he stepped in salt spread on the snow. He shook convulsively when the cat got a toy and he didn’t.
We decided that, with him not moving of late, and being eleven, and bassets living to ten or twelve or so, and with the pain he would have, that we would put him down. I held him as he went.
I still worry, endlessly, that I did the wrong thing. I can only remember picking him up, waking up endless vets, and running to save. He thought he would be okay, and in the end I killed him.
It’s funny, I’ve lost so much. My mother, so much family. But this haunts me. I can’t imagine losing a child, as I have only experienced a fraction of the loss, but somehow I think I understand. I was responsible for him, and so his death.
He was the best. Everybody loved him and knew that he was of more importance to us than even the “people” that surrounded our lives.
Here he is, or was, Gordon:
I cannot imagine losing him. That's definitely the hardest part about owning a pet.
