Reflections on the Ninth Week of Spring – George On My Mind 

    Last Monday Charlie said, “George slowed down since I was here six months ago.”

    George has always functioned in his own time zone–that delay after I’ve hoisted him over my head before he merrowed a protest. Spence and I hadn’t noticed a change in George’s behavior. He still jumped onto the sofa, waited by the door for an opportunity to escape and lap puddled rain, and licked his sister Emma’s head. Spence and I attributed George’s slower steps, like ours, to arthritis and aging.

    George staring at the food bowl and walking away without taking a bite didn’t bother me either. I’d switched his prescription diet to over-the-counter food. George preferred Spence’s offerings of chicken and chipped ham. When George stopped eating the off-diet treats and an ingrown claw irritated his left front toe, I made an appointment with the Greenville Veterinary Clinic for Wednesday.

    Wednesday afternoon Charlie, in bare feet and shorts, lugged George in his small-dog sized cage across the gravel driveway and set him on the back seat of the Subaru. “Take it easy, George,” Charlie said and clicked the fully extended seatbelt around the cage. Spence slipped onto the passenger seat, and I drove to Greenville.

    Whines floated to the front seat.

    “He sounds like Emma complaining,” I said shifting gears. “He’s usually resigned and quiet.”

    “He must not feel well,” Spence said.

    “Do you think they’ll keep him overnight?”

    “Probably not─”

    More whines.

    Spence turned and patted the cage. “─ well, maybe.”

    At the vet’s, George curled as small as possible in the waiting room while five dogs barked. Doctor Heather, a petite young woman with a row of delicate silver earrings on her left ear, finally called us. “Do you mind coming into the euthanasia room? It’s the only space I have open right now, and I didn’t want to make you wait any longer.”

    We stepped into a powder blue room trimmed with hand painted flowers. A high shelf held boxes for ashes and figures of angels holding cats. George curled in the back of his cage. I tugged him out and onto the exam table. While I petted his head, Dr. Heather examined his paw and probed his abdomen. “He has some hard stools in there. He might only need an enema, but I’ll do blood tests to be sure.” She cradled George in her arms and carried him away to the treatment room for his blood work.

    Might only? In silence, Spence and I stared at each other. He leaned against the wall. I sat on the love seat across from the exam table and read poems painted on the wall . . . a joy forever . . . part of my heart . . . loving friend.

    After what seemed like hours, a technician barged in gripping George under the shoulders and holding him away from her body with outstretched arms. “He’s really angry. He might bite you. Do you want me to put him in the cage?”

    Spence lunged to the table and George. “No! Let us calm him down.” Spence petted George then cradled him. No merrows. No whines.

    I reached out my arms. Spence brought George to me, and I held him against my chest. “Good boy,” I crooned. “You’re my handsome boy.”

    Dr. Heather entered and sat beside me.

    I put my face against George’s fur and listened.

    “...lost three pounds...kidney failure...no cure...hospital for IV...special diet...owner decides quality of life...”

    OMG. What a message to receive in the euthanasia room.

    My arms wobbled. “Yes, give him the IV and keep him overnight in the hospital."

    Spence lifted George to the table.

    I stood, and we petted George until a technician brought in a big blue towel, wrapped George inside, and carried him away.

    With a heavy but hopeful heart, we took the empty cage home and left it by the side door to bring George home later.

    The commotion of our entering and setting down the empty cage woke Emma from a nap in the Adirondack chair. She glared at the cage.

    Concerned she’d be as sad as us about George not coming home, I picked her up and held her close to my chest.

    She sniffed. Smelling George, the alcohol from his blood test site, and the odor of the vet’s, she hissed.

    Thursday afternoon I drove back to the vet’s. A technician led me through back halls to George, dragged a stool over to his hospital cage, and opened the door. On the cage door hung an orange sign that read “BITES.” The tech said, “Be sure he knows it’s you instead of one of us, and try to get him to eat.”

    Beside a litter box a fourth his size, George slept, curled into a ball. An IV tube stuck in his left front leg, dirt smeared his face, and hair stuck out at odd angles.

    “George,” I whispered. “How’s my big boy?”

    His ears twitched. Head down and slower than a drowsy turtle, he turned toward me. His eyes opened a slit.

    I fondled his ears.

    He leaned into my hand and purred.

    Murmuring, “Good boy” and “Love you George,” I combed him.

    He stood on wobbly legs and licked my hand.

    Licking? I picked up the dish of kidney-diet food resembling gray goop and held it below his tongue.

    He sniffed, ate an eighth of the food, and lay down.

    “Good boy!” More petting, more leaning, more purring.

    “Where’s your snake? Spence brought it on his way to Cleveland. Did the technician give you your hairy snake? ”

    Again in slower than turtle mode, he stood, took three steps toward the back of the cage, and turned towards me.

    On the floor where he’d lain was his hairy snake toy. Even in his weakened condition he’d guarded it from the poking, jabbing, deserving-a-bite strangers.

    I picked up the comb.

    George wobbled back to me.

    I combed and chatted. When he licked my hand, I dipped my finger into the gray goop and stuck it under his nose to lick.

    Comb, lick. Fingertip-of-food, lick.

    A half hour after I’d arrived, he hobbled to the back of the cage, curled his tail around himself, and closed his eyes. Guessing he wanted to rest, I untangled the IV and closed his door.

    He looked up.

    “I have to go to a writing conference in Pittsburgh, George, but I’ll call to check on you. Eat and get strong so you can come home. I’ll meet you there Sunday afternoon.”

    George closed his eyes.

    I took a deep yoga breath, said, “Hang in there, big boy,” and left to pack for the three day Thirtieth Annual Pennwriters Conference.

    Friday morning, several hours after I’d headed south, Spence sent an email.

Stopped to pet George in his jail cell for 45 minutes. Groggy at first, he quickly glommed who it was and decided it was a jail break. I had to keep pushing him (and his IV) back into the cell. He finally settled down to just petting, licking and head butting. The vet tech said George was still not eating, but I got him into the bowl a little, and he also took some water. The only way I was able to get away was that he finally, worn out from being petted, curled up in the corner of his cell with the hairy snake.

    In Pittsburgh Friday afternoon, I called the Greenville Veterinary Clinic. The answering tech said, “George is resting quietly, but he hasn’t eaten. The doctor will do blood tests in the morning to see if he can go home.”

    Friday night, I crawled under the Marriott sheets. Was George sleeping with his snake? The toilet in my hotel room voluntarily belched every fifteen or twenty minutes. Would George put his paws on the toilet seat and watch the baseball sized bubble of air pop and splash, or would he hide under the computer desk away from the bathroom monster?

    Saturday morning Spence emailed.

News on George: bad and good

Vet says that his blood tests don't show any improvement, in fact worse than when we brought him in, but he's feeling pretty good and wants to come home. She will release him with the proviso that we give him subcutaneous fluid injections once daily. Tammy Graham [our vet tech neighbor] has agreed to do this. If we see new symptoms, we should bring him back. Otherwise another blood test in a week.

    Saturday night in Pittsburgh, I dressed like a pirate and sipped cranberry juice in a party room blasting sea chanteys. I talked with Pennwriters about costumes and writing projects, but my mind drifted to George. Was he eating?

    Sunday, after participating in Writer’s Meditation and three workshops, I rushed to the car and zoomed north. I burst in the front door to find Charlie on the floor petting George.

   “Good to see you, George,” I said.

    He didn’t walk over to greet me like usual, but gazing at me with wide green eyes, he merrowed.

    To be continued