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Bobby.

A Eulogy

By Nita CheungPublished 3 years ago 9 min read
1
Bobby

B E F O R E

I wish we had met when you were younger. That way, we would have had more time together. Instead, I met you when you were already halfway through your life, and me, only a quarter of the way through mine. I had heard stories about you. About how much trouble you had caused when you were first brought home and how you chewed your way through every post on the veranda, so it had to be replaced with steel. Your stories used to make me laugh and wish that I had been there for those moments.

Initially, you were never one to sit still. Like a human with ants in their pants, you could never stay in one spot for long – always wondering around the backyard or, if you were inside, around the house. I could hear your paws pattering on the floorboards before you ever appeared, poking your head into the living room, wondering what we were doing that afternoon. Although you slept outside, we always brought your mat inside so that you could sit in company. My favourite pastime was sitting in my favourite armchair, with a cup of coffee, a pen and the latest edition of Family Circle Puzzles; you knew I loved entering their competitions. I always asked you for help aloud, though I knew you could not answer me. You would look at me with those inquisitive eyes of yours and flop your head to one side, and I would laugh.

Although you had your own food and we fed you well, you could never help but to wander to our side as we were preparing dinner each night. Everyone else in the household would feed you nibbles of food here and there as they cooked, especially if it were chicken, your favourite. I, however, stubbornly stuck to my guns, refusing to contribute to your increasing weight. You were overweight, you know. I had to prevent you from gaining weight even further, even if that meant ignoring your imploring stares every time I sat down and ate. You only ever sat and watched me eat my food, not anyone else. Was it because I never fed you under the table like the others? All I know is that I learnt my lesson after that time when I left to go get a glass of water and came back to you finishing off my plate. I kept a closer eye on you after that. And I never left the table without my plate again.

You went for several walks a day. Mostly because of your breed, but also because of how much we knew you loved walks. Every time you heard the word “walk”, your ears would perk up and eyes brighten. Then you would wander over to the door expectantly, waiting impatiently for us to finish putting on our shoes. You had your favourite routes. If we ever brought you in a different direction you would stop and look up at us, wondering why we were not following our usual path. I remember bringing you to the large oval across the road at dusk one day, where I sat and watched you gander around and chase a rabbit. You never did end up catching her of course; she was much too nimble for your heavy, clumsy body. But you tried, and tired yourself out. You slept well that night.

D U R I N G

It started off small. You took longer than usual getting up from your mat, which you were increasingly spending more time on. I heard your paws pattering around less and less, although I always knew where you were. As COVID hit and I started to work from home, I moved your mat to the dining room, where I had my double screens set up. I could see you from the corner of my eye, with you only ever getting up if you wanted a change of scenery and lie down outside. I started to bring your water bowl up to your mouth as you stopped drinking by yourself.

We put you on a diet, thinking it was your weight. Special diet food was delivered to us and nibbles were strictly forbidden. Well, mostly forbidden anyway. I could always tell when you had eaten something extra because of the way you chewed, as though you wanted to savour the flavours. The diet did work, you eventually fell within the normal range for your size and breed, and we thought that would be the end of it. But your lethargy persisted, even with the weight lost you continued to sleep all day and have trouble getting up and sitting down from your mat.

The vet diagnosed arthritis. She prescribed some medication and recommended that we cut your walks down to only two, short 10-minute walks a day. Although it was a change for us, it appeared to be welcomed by you. You still loved your walks, but appeared glad to get home and lie back down on your mat. We did not think too much of it as we knew you were getting older. You still loved getting attention and I started a routine of lying down next to you, rubbing your belly before I went to bed.

On Sunday, 14 February 2021, I woke up and you were gone. I was told you were brought to the emergency room early that morning because you had been unable to get up. You were carried to the car and they had you admitted to conduct tests and investigate the issues. I expected you home for dinner, but you stayed overnight.

A F T E R

A tumour was found on your spleen. If it is only limited to your spleen, it can be removed and you should be okay, the vet had explained to us. However, if it has spread to your liver, then there would be nothing they can do, and you would have 1-3 months at most. We were shocked, it was all happening so quickly. You underwent emergency surgery that day and a sample was sent to the lab to confirm whether the tumour was cancerous or not. It was the longest four hours of my life, waiting for that call back from the vet, letting us know the surgery was a success. But hear back we did, and it was good news, the surgery went well, and you were resting.

We went to visit you that night. It was hard to see you bandaged up with tubes coming from your body. You were sluggish from the painkillers and anaesthesia, but it was still good to be able to comfort you. You will be home soon, I thought, we just needed to get you through that crucial 24–48-hour window first. Although it was late, we stayed for as long as we could and only when you had fallen asleep, did we return home. We were sad that you could not be home with us, but felt hopeful that you would make a full recovery.

The next day I could not concentrate on work. As 5:00pm hit, I packed up my things and drove to the vet to see you. You were much the same as yesterday, still bandaged up, still quiet and unmoving. We surrounded your table, speaking in low, reassuring voices. Whenever we mentioned the word “walk”, your ears would prick up and eyes brighten, roaming around, looking for your lead. We laughed, thinking you were getting back to your old self, though you could not lift your head. When we got up to leave, you tried to struggle to your feet, wishing to leave with us. You will be back home tomorrow, we promised, just focus on your recovery.

As I was grocery shopping later that evening, I got a message asking me to get to the vet as soon as possible; it looked like you were not going to make it. I fumbled my keys into the ignition and my hands shook as I drove. How could this be? I had only seen you not an hour before and you had been fine. As I rushed into the waiting room, I was met by the vet and ushered into the main office. They had not moved you yet, you were in the small cage where the drip was set up. It was hard to see you there, you lay still for long moments at a time and breathed in great, shuddering breaths. The rest of the family arrived, and you were held as you took your final breath. You had waited for the family to arrive, allowing everyone to say their goodbyes, before you left us. Voices around us were hushed and our masks muffled our sobs.

They wheeled your body to a private room where we sat there with you for a long time, stroking your fur. We reminisced about memories past gone and assured you what a good boy you were. As the hours passed, the vet came in to ask us how we would like to farewell you – buried or cremated? Were pet cemeteries a thing? We could not take you home to bury you as we were moving out this year. She went out and quietly came back in ten minutes later holding a small black notebook. It was a list of the pet cemeteries in our state. I will look into it tomorrow, I thought. For now, I just wanted to be with you.

The vet returned later with the bill. It was a huge number and we had never thought to get insurance. I felt helpless as I stared at the pages, wondering how we would be able to gather the money to pay for your bills and give you the send-off you deserve. As it neared midnight, we said our final goodbyes to you, tears still streaming down our faces. You are in a better place now, we said, rest well.

I could not sleep that night. I woke up tired, with sore, puffy eyes. As I was in the kitchen pouring my coffee, I got a call from an unknown number. I usually avoid calls from numbers I do not recognise, but for some reason, I decided to answer it that morning. It was a caller from Family Circle Puzzles. I had won $20,000 from a crossword I had completed and submitted the month prior. I was in disbelief as she told me they had drawn my name and I had won the major prize. She would send through the details for collection later, she advised. Hanging up, I sank into my armchair and started to laugh, tears streaming down my face all the while. I knew this was your doing; I had never won anything in my life, and now I had won a major prize. I knew you had done it so I would not stress over the vet bills. You were a good boy; the best boy.

In the end, we decided to cremate you. The list of pet cemeteries in the little black notebook had all shut down or were in regional areas where we would be unable to visit you as frequently as we would want. Sometimes I can still hear your pattering paws in the morning, although I know it is all in my mind. You do still sit behind me, and I can still see you there in the corner of my eye, though you are no longer on your mat, but resting in your urn on the mantlepiece. Rest in peace, my friend.

dog
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About the Creator

Nita Cheung

Just trying to get more creative.

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