It's Me, Sara Louise

“Fifty, Fifty, you’re my very best friend. Fifty, Fifty, and you’ll be ‘til the very end. Fifty, Fifty, you’re my very best friend. Fifty, Fifty, and you’ll be ‘til the very end.”

I made up this little song about four years ago when Fifty was around ten or so. Knowing that I was on a countdown, I wanted to have something that hopefully could provide comfort and peace at the end, so every night before bed, I sang it to him in hopes that in the future, when I had to sing it to him, he would hear it and merely think it was time to go night night. 

Even though I have sung that song to him more times than I can count, and each time held my breath a bit, knowing why I was, I still wasn’t prepared. I don’t think one can ever truly be prepared. 

It was a Thursday morning. We woke up at 6:14. I took a deep breath and steadied myself for the day. My mother was en route from Spain for a visit, and we had plans to go directly from Newark Airport to spend the night with some friends in New Jersey. I would be dropping Fifty off at the kennel. As he got older, I dreaded those stays more and more. 

We got out of bed and ready for our quick morning walk. Fifty was fine. (In hindsight, I know now that he only seemed fine.)

We walked out to the apartment door, down two flights of stairs, and into the lobby. 

He was fine. 

As soon as we stepped outside the building, Fifty took off like a horse leaving the gate. It was like he had been hit with a shot of adrenaline; he tore down the sidewalk along the parking lot, pulling me along with him. This was not normal “mommy, I have to go real bad ,run.” This was something else. 

He ran straight into the road (thankfully, there were no cars coming) and paused. He threw his head back and let out a painful cry as he wet himself. 
Before I could process what had happened, he took off again with me barely hanging on to the leash, my feet clenching as I tried to keep the flip flops on my feet.

Fifty ran wildly; his ears popped up in determination. But there was no attention, no focus, just sheer, wild, full-speed panic. 

He slowed down, circled, his eyes searched for something that was not there. I grabbed my phone and called my vet. The office was closed, but the emergency service answered. 

They asked if Fifty was responsive. I shouted his name over and over, watching as he turned his head and body around and around, searching for where the sound was coming from. While there I was, standing only a couple of feet away. It was like his mind had gone someplace else, somewhere far away.

The person on the phone told me to get him in to see someone as soon as possible. I told her he was booked into a kennel for the night that was part of an animal hospital. She said to get him there as soon as they opened. 

As I got off the phone, Fifty had calmed enough for me to steer him home. We took the elevator up, and I watched him as he slowly seemed to calm down. We entered the apartment, and he paced a bit like he was unsure of where he was or what to do. After a few minutes, he went to his bed, collapsed, and let out a big sigh. I did too. It seemed like he had tired himself out and would sleep for a bit. I kept my fingers crossed and went to take a shower. 

When I stepped out, Fifty was in his usual spot when I get ready in the morning – lying smack down in the middle of the bathroom floor.
Surely that was a good sign, I thought. I got myself ready, grabbed my overnight bag, and Fifty’s stuffed sloth Saoirse. 

He seemed like himself again. We took the elevator down and walked out into the parking lot. When I opened the car door, he hopped up into the back seat without needing any help.

He was fine. 

When we got to the kennel, I checked him in for his stay. I told them what had happened and asked if he could be examined while he was there. I handed Saoirse the sloth to the receptionist, told Fifty I’d see him the following day, gave him a cuddle, and watched as he was walked through the doors towards the kennel. 

He was fine.

But he wasn’t. 

Fifteen minutes later, I had a call from the vet. “I don’t know what’s wrong with Fifty, but he’s freaking out.”

“What do you mean he’s freaking out? I don’t understand. He was fine a few minutes ago. He was fine.” I desperately tried to stay calm as I drove down the Taconic.

“He’s panting excessively and is having a very difficult time walking and controlling himself.”

I explained what had happened and asked if I should come back. I never would have left if he had been like that when I dropped him off. He said not to worry; they would give him a sedative to help him relax and then take a better look at him. He’d call me later.

A few hours later, I was having a late lunch catching up with my mother and godmother when my phone rang. 

The sedative had done the trick, Fifty was calm and resting, but he had a fever of 104 (normal is 100-102). They said they would keep him under observation for the night and not to worry. 

By 8:00 the following day, we were headed back to New York. I called the kennel as soon as they opened to check on him. Fifty had had a restful night and was calm, but his fever had spiked to 107 at one point.

“That seems very high,” I said.

“It is, but he’s doing much better now.” I tried to feel reassured, but I wasn’t. Fifty wasn’t fine. I could feel it. I knew it. 

When I arrived, I asked if I could speak to a vet. My mother and I were brought into an examination room and waited. The vet came in, and we talked; she said she hadn’t been there the day before but had been filled in on Fifty’s case. 

I explained my fears… asked what could have happened the day before when I had walked him… could it happen again… what should I do… 

She was so kind. So patient. So understanding. She said that while they couldn’t be sure, it seemed like he had a neurological attack, most likely a stroke. I braced myself because I knew what all this meant. It was time to say goodbye. She asked if I wanted to take him home for a few days. No. I wouldn’t have the strength to bring him back. 

Fifty was brought into the room. I swear he was smiling, but it was like he had aged overnight. He looked so old; his fur even seemed paler. And my poor boy could barely walk; his back legs weren’t working properly.

A vet tech brought blankets in and laid them on the scale. She told me to take all the time I needed and left. 

I got on the floor to be closer to him. I cuddled him as he gave me kisses wiping up my tears, and I told him all the things that needed to be said. 

About twenty-five minutes later, Fifty walked over to the scale, put one paw on it, and looked to me for help. He wanted to get up on the scale, on the blankets. Fifty was ready to go. 

Then the vet came back in.

I held Fifty and sang his song, singing the words over and over until my good boy went to sleep for the very last time.