"Not Yet, Panda, Not Yet"

As my ex-wife and her sister sat sobbing at the Vet’s that Thanksgiving weekend in 2017, I did my best to remain resolute. It didn’t help that the Vet was also crying, after delivering the news that due to an accident the day before, she was recommending that Panda be put down.

They’re not gonna take Panda, I said to myself, over and over again. Not yet.

Panda was a chubby twelve-year-old ball of fur and smiles. When my late mother-in-law adopted her, she kept the pound’s name for her, Panda. I thought she should have been named Oreo instead. Her black-and-white coloring so closely resembled an Oreo milkshake that I joked she should have walked around with a straw or two stuck in her collar.

Like many lapdogs, Panda was a sponge for affection. And my late mother-in-law doted on her in return, sharing a small bowl of ice cream with her every night. Years of that luxury led to a few extra pounds, and led in turn to that fateful late Fall evening.

Panda, as was her wont, couldn’t wait to get inside after a lengthy three-hour car ride. She hopped down from the car and bounded through the backyard towards the back steps. Those steps up into the house were wooden and painted with a slick coat of battleship gray paint. She made it almost all the way to the top of the stairs, when she slipped and fell. She tumbled down to the cold limestone walkway at the bottom, where she let out a yelp of pain that sounded like someone had kicked her across the yard.

Racing over from unloading the car, I found her surrounded by my three kids and my ex. Panda was in obvious pain. She couldn’t stand. She couldn’t move her back legs. My ex was in a sorry state herself: Panda had belonged to her late mother, who had passed away just a few months before.

I picked Panda up, and she yelped again. Clearly, she had injured her spine or her back in the fall. I carried her inside. Needless to say, the preparations for Thanksgiving were quite muted.

There was only one Vet open the next morning, and we had to beg the receptionist to get an appointment to bring Panda in to be checked out. I carried her to the car and carried her inside, with my ex and her sister holding back tears along the way. We had wrapped her tightly in a warm blanket, but Panda shivered nonetheless. Maybe she knew where we were taking her, or maybe she had a premonition what was waiting for her inside.

We passed her over to the Vet and her assistant, who took her into a back room for X-rays, along with the requisite poking and prodding. I kept my head up in the waiting room, as my ex and her sister shared quiet memories of Panda and their late mom, the way they’d walk the neighborhood streets together, how Panda liked to sun herself on the driveway, and how she’d greet the mail lady when she came by each and every day.

Panda was always so gentle around our three kids when they were young, though she had a surprising jealous streak when it came to other dogs. She wanted all the attention and affection for herself; no other dog, whether tiny pup or massive Wolfhound, would take an ounce of that away from her.

It seemed like an eternity before the Vet emerged and calmly asked us to come inside to the ops room. There lay Panda on a stainless tell table, still partially wrapped in her warm blanket, looking up at us with her “Can I please just go home now?” expression. I placed my hand on her shoulders and rubbed her through her black-and-white mantle, telling her in a soothing voice that everything would be okay.

The Vet stood next to my ex, and within seconds, made her point clear. She began with, “Panda’s led a good life,” and instantly, a flood gate of emotion burst open from my ex and her sister, to which the Vet quickly joined in. Their tears flowed like a river after a summer rain. Tearfully, my ex agreed that Panda had had a good life, and added how glad she was that Panda had made it through all the years she’d spent with her mom.

I couldn’t believe it. Here was my ex, ready to condemn Panda to the Afterlife, after such a quick reading by a Vet who’d never met Panda before that morning.

The Vet explained that Panda had damaged her spine, and that only an expensive operation could fix the problem. And she really meant expensive: it began at $5,000 for the surgery alone, before the additional cost of medication and a series of lengthy post-op treatments. Of course, with three kids, we simply couldn’t afford that. And, the Vet added, there was no guarantee that Panda would even walk again after the operation.

My ex tearfully began asking if the kids could see her before they put her down, and that question snapped me out of my silence.

“No,” I said calmly, then with more authority, “No! No, we’re not doing that. We’re not putting her down.”

The Vet looked at me with a look of condolence that I’m certain she’d had to use a thousand times before. “I know this is difficult, but—”

“No!” I said again, firmer. “We are not putting Panda down. Not today, not this close to Thanksgiving. That’s just…” I took a deep breath and planted my feet firmer. “That’s not what we’re gonna do.”

The Vet blinked. I guess she’d never had anyone deny her esteemed medical opinion before. “But she won’t be able to go to the bathroom.”

“That’s okay,” I replied. “I’ll carry her outside.”

“But it’ll be messy,” she added.

“I’ve raised three kids, and volunteered at a daycare,” I replied. “I know all about messy.”

“She’ll need constant attention,” my ex said, through sniffling tears. What she meant was, since I was a stay-at-home writer, I’d be the one who would have to constantly take care of her.

“Yeah,” I said, “I expect that. But it’s better than the alternative.” I looked down at Panda with a determined yet calm gaze, as I rubbed her shoulders. “She’s not going yet.”

The next few hours were filled with instructions and details and caveats. I was taught how to help her pee by pressing on her abdomen next to her hind legs. The Vet gave us a couple of prescriptions for her pain and any abdominal swelling. I was warned repeatedly that the future would be a blur of her barking to go out, whining for food, and repeated whimpering when she’d peed indoors after forgetting to bark to go out. I accepted all those requirements and duties and dire predictions without complaint.

True to the Vet’s words, the next few weeks were all that and more. I must have shampooed the hallway carpet a dozen times in the first two weeks alone. But there were good moments, too. One of the advantages of the old house near the airport was that it had a cozy firepit in the compact back yard. I’d get a fire started, low and warm without many sparks or smoke, and I’d carry Panda out to sit beside the fire, in whatever warming sunlight I could find. She’d sit there with her constantly smiling face, basking in the sun, looking for all the world like she was the happiest dog in the world.

She quickly realized that even if she didn’t have full use of her back legs, she could still drag herself around. She’d heave herself up on her narrow front legs, and simply wobble to and fro, first around the back yard, then soon, down the sidewalk beside the house.

Then one day, a couple of days before Christmas, with a light dusting of snow on the ground, Panda and I were out on our first “drag race” of the day. But this morning was different. Once I placed her on the ground beside the sidewalk, she gave a sort of snort as if to say, “Enough of this dragging my butt around baloney!”

And with another heave, she raised her back half up on her feet!

She wobbled a bit, and appeared as if at any moment she might just lose her balance and fall into the ground ivy beside the sidewalk. But she did it, by God, she walked. Halting and ungainly, but walking nonetheless.

I recorded this milestone on my phone and sent it to my ex. Her reply is one I’ll always remember:

“That’s the best Christmas present I’ve ever received!”

It took a few more months, but by the ensuing Spring, Panda had made an almost complete and totally miraculous recovery. Her walk was unsteady for a while, but she was certainly walking on her own.

At the six-month point, I brought her back to that same Vet. Panda plopped out of the car, and without any guidance on my part, waddled right up to the front door. I opened it for her, and she toddled inside like she owned the place.

The receptionist rushed out from behind the counter to greet her, soon followed by a half-dozen assistants and aides from in back. Panda welcomed all their attention and love, beaming all the while. And when the Vet saw her, she burst into tears again. This time, though, they were tears of joy. In between sobs, she said she’d never been so happy to be wrong.

Panda lived another four years after that eventful Thanksgiving weekend. She went for her neighborhood stroll three times each day, and gratefully accepted every pet and greeting from the neighbors who took pleasure in her always-smiling face.

That picture at the top of the story? That’s Panda’s last picture, in 2021, at the ripe old age of 16. I like to think those extra four years weren’t just a blessing for her, but for all of us who were lucky enough to know her.