He Shines Now

Hamlet died at about 9:20pm on Tuesday, September 7th, 2010.

He was probably between 10 and 11 years old, though as a Rescue Dog we can't know for sure.

He was an exceptional and loving companion to us. Words won't ever suffice.

We've been dreading this event for some time; I couldn't help imagining all of the horrible, ugly, nasty things that could happen. All things considered, it was actually something of a relief that it turned out as well as it did -- we were all together, at our home, and he did not seem to suffer much or for very long.

And there were other details, too, that became strangely beautiful and precious despite the sadness.

Labor Day was a three-day weekend. We all had fun together -- in retrospect, it seems like we had more fun than usual. We played, we went for a ride, we hung out. Hammy was active and happy more consistently than he'd been for months (rivaling the burst of activity he enjoyed right after his first laser treatments).

Tuesday was a stormy day in Las Vegas: very dark, with sudden showers. This is unusual enough in itself, but also because it seemingly came out of nowhere -- it was sunny and clear before, and it has been ever since. We complained, but only because we had to work; my wife and I love bad weather.

I remember being a bit restless, a little on edge, all throughout the day. That's not completely uncommon, especially for the first day after the weekend, but it must have been bad enough to mention it in a text message to my wife.

Due to a scheduled "open house", my wife had to stay at school much later than usual. We didn't feel completely comfortable with leaving the dogs alone for so long, so I decided to leave work an hour and a half early. Though we're no strangers to coming home to poop on the floor, we'd like to keep that from happening whenever possible...

Text message to my wife at 4:41:

I'm home, the guys are fine, no messes, and I got the cat litter.

at 4:42:

...But Hammy started pooping within minutes (he waited until i got them outside, luckily)

at 6:01:

Everybody is chillin' here, waiting for you :)

My wife came home at approximately 7:25pm. When the second person arrives, the dogs are more likely to get excited. Plus, it was a little late for their usual 7pm dinner time, which is something that everybody always looks forward to.

The dogs got their usual medications (just a pill or two for the arthritis), Brutus got a full bowl of food, and Hammy got a sprinkle of new kibbles on top of his untouched breakfast bowl. They both ate heartily, and soon had to go outside. It was probably around 8pm by this time.

My wife took the dogs out to the back yard. When she came back inside, she mentioned that Hamlet was gagging.

All of our animals have been known to vomit from time to time. We don't even bat an eye when the cats cough up a hairball, and both Brutus and Hamlet have the habit of eating too quickly and barfing up some barely-digested kibbles afterwards. So a little retching is not a completely uncommon sound at our house.

Plus, we believe that the dogs may have come down with a minor cold or something a few weeks ago. We all felt a tiny bit under the weather, a little more likely to have a runny nose and crusty eyes (Hamlet's eyes were the worst -- but he wasn't producing tears any more, so we were constantly flushing out eye-gunk anyway). Both dogs had been coughing or gagging a little bit, here and there. It worried us, but never seemed serious or frequent enough to take further steps. Anyway, most of this had pretty much cleared up over the last week or so.

So we weren't immediately panicked by a little gagging. I've seen each of the animals wander around, seemingly searching for the perfect place to puke, and that's pretty much what we assumed Hamlet was doing.

It soon became obvious that something else was happening. I thought I noticed some swelling around his belly, but it was difficult to be sure (at first). He was restless, but that also was not unusual for him when we were all home, especially in the evening when it was hot.

He kept heaving, wandering to a different spot, and retching again. I tried to induce vomiting, but nothing came up. After a few minutes of watching him inside the house, my wife took Hamlet out the front door. They were outside for several minutes, longer than the usual poop trip. She was growing more concerned; I came out and waited with Hamlet while she went back inside.

I could see that he was definitely bloated, and his tongue was hanging out of his mouth in an unusual way. I put my finger down his throat one last time -- still unproductive. After a few minutes, I decided to coax him back inside. Instead, he laid down on the ground -- something he almost never did outdoors -- and I saw his tail start to wag slightly. That was exactly the signal that I'd been dreading for years, and I think I said "oh, don't do that..." out loud.

Now virtually certain that this was The Time, I picked him up as gently as I could and brought him inside. Kate says that he walked the few steps to his blanket in the dining room and settled down. I was already looking up emergency veterinarians; it was right around 9pm.

A few years ago, I had taken Brutus to Craig Road Animal Hospital when he hurt himself after-hours. It's nearby, and I don't think I was disappointed with the care. Meanwhile, my wife was also calling our usual vet's 24-hour line; the hospital that they recommended was too far away.

We got ready to leave very quickly. I lifted Hamlet in my arms; he was surprisingly light, none of the usual awkward positions or uncomfortable struggling. About halfway to the jeep, I felt him urinate a little on my arm. My wife opened the tailgate, I set him down gently and we took off.

The trip was quick but not quick enough. Though there was plenty of traffic, the night seemed very dark and quiet, as if it was much later. About halfway there, Kate told me that she didn't think he was breathing. I really didn't know what to say, so I told her we were almost there. Both of us pretty much knew that he was already gone.

I carried him into the clinic, I think I remember someone coming from inside to hold the door. It was empty except for us, for which we were distantly grateful. A woman brought us directly into a room in the back, and we told the vet the details. It was maybe 9:30pm at most.

The vet was really sweet; she seemed shaky, like she was scared or about to burst into tears. Nevertheless, she was very professional as well as kind and understanding; she and another woman guided us through all of the necessary details without ever seeming insensitive.

The vet took him away to attempt CPR, but I wouldn't allow myself even a desperate tiny hope. I could only hug my wife, who had started crying when she began to explain the situation to the vet. We simply waited, devastated, hearing bad music from the back room. My wife called her brother, who himself had lost his beloved dog not many years before. It was just before 10pm.

After a short time, the vet came back and explained the situation: bloating is really, really serious for many dogs because of the strain and blockage on the surrounding organs. In Hamlet's case, there was no twisted stomach to worry about (the vet hypothesized that it may never have twisted, or may have un-twisted itself during transport & examination), but his heart and lungs and blood supply were cut off...and as a bulldog, he didn't have as much room in there.

There was a question about how long the vet should keep trying. I didn't want to give up too early, but I also knew that there was no hope. Perhaps a younger, stronger Hamlet could have put up more of a fight...but he was an old dog, tired and weakened by countless little things.

Even if we'd taken him to the vet at the first sign of trouble, there's no guarantee that we could have done any better. Or, in the vet's words, that we would have even wanted him back in that condition, with whatever caused the problem still potentially lurking in there. It had already been fifteen minutes or more since my wife had noticed that he wasn't breathing.

So I allowed the vet to call it.

I was apprehensive when she offered to bring him back into the room, but my wife wanted it to happen. I'm so glad that she did. Apart from his tongue, which was a bit discolored, everything was exactly the same as if he'd simply decided to take a nap. His fur, his bulk, his features -- everything felt the same as we petted him for the last time. I'll never forget feeling his toes and paw pads, which he'd never let me do before. It was all so overwhelmingly sweet and sad and beautiful.

I'm sure we could have stayed with him for another hour or two, or all night, but after ten minutes or so it started to feel a little long, and too quiet. He was cooling.

I poked my head though the back door of the exam room and let a woman know that we were ready. Eventually, the vet and another woman came and wheeled him away for the last time. We watched him go through the back door of the exam room and down the hall, just as we'd done on so many previous vet visits. Only this time, he wouldn't be coming back, all patched up, eager to bust through the door and get back to love and food and naps at home.

We left the vet at about 10:15 or 10:20. The whole trip had taken about an hour.

My wife says that she thinks that he died on his blanket in the dining room. I think that's probably true, but I also wonder if he died in my arms on the way to the Jeep. Either way, I'm pretty sure that when he finally stopped gagging and laid down, he knew at least that we were all there with him. Out of all of the things that I dreaded for him, dying alone was the worst -- and it didn't happen.

He didn't even die with strangers, or in a strange place with strange noises and smells; he died where he had his happiest times, with the ones that he loved and who love him. If my wife is right, he even died on his beloved blanket, only inches from his beloved food bowl.

Neither of us went to work the next day, and we barely ate or slept. We spent hours talking about him, and crying, and marveling at how oddly appropriate and precious the experience had turned out to be, despite the terrible crushing sadness of the loss.

We talked about how full his life was, how much he gave us, and how greedy it seemed to want any more. We talked abut how he had been struggling, in mind and body, for the last few months. How now there was no more pain, no more anxiety.

In a day or two there would be pictures and videos to laugh and cry over, but that night it was just the two of us, closer perhaps than we'd ever been. A perfect final chapter.

At some quiet point I had a mental picture of Hamlet walking away, down the hallway past the laundry...maybe a memory of watching him going to visit my wife in the bathroom.

I noticed a faint light coming from him, glimmering in the dim hallway of my memories. I realized that he was beginning to shine.