Finnigan's Surgery

 

Every once in a while I ask myself why I am so crazy about my dog?  I was faced with that very question last week, and the answer I found was more profound than even I imagined. 

 

To jump to the heart of the issue, Finnigan, my 7-year-old rescue poodle, a 60- pound guy that I adore, took ill with a condition known as bloat, an affliction facing many deep-chested animals. The condition is fatal if surgical intervention is not performed immediately. My local vet sent me to Metropolitan Veterinary Clinic in Copley after a suspicious x-ray. By then, I was surmising my own assessment of his condition because Hannah, my first standard poodle and the subject of my book, Hannah’s Memory Box, had died from that very condition. Her case was different, however, because she had advanced liver disease, was crippled from arthritis, and was nearly 13 years old.

 

After a tense drive, the Copley vets sprung into action. Finn was assessed by a team of doctors. I knew what this meant: not only might my beloved dog die, the rainy day fund I’d been saving was on the line. Just how much did I love my dog? 

 

In the evening, a vet brought Finn in to see me before the procedure. I held him in my arms. I wept. I told him just how much his mama needed him. I kissed his furry head and cradled him close to my heart. Luckily, the surgery went without incident. He had some mild heart arrhythmia in the next 48 hours, but then I drove back to Copley to collect my little boy. 

 

Even though Finn survived cancer surgery 2 years ago, I wasn’t prepared for the sight of him. A thickly bandaged Fentanyl patch was secured to his neck. His legs were shaved. He was so fragile, barely able to stand. The tech lifted him into the backseat of my car. I wrapped him in cozy blankets and carted him home. 

 

Over the next week, I became a full-time nurse, placing ice packs on his 12” incision, spooning water into his mouth, carrying him to the yard in hopes of him pottying, and feeding him teaspoons of his favorite chicken and rice. He seemed oblivious, until I left the room. Then he strained to follow me. I took to sleeping on the couch beside him, my hand trailing in his fluffy black and white fur. The lights on the tree twinkling. I was so glad he was there.

 

While waiting at the Copley vet hospital, my daughter said some profound words. “Remember when Aunt Marjorie was so sick and you sat with her, sometimes silently. My religion professor said that is what people want, your presence. Just you being there.” That was why she drove to join me at the hospital.

 

And that is why I love my dogs. They give me their presence. Their eyes that trail me. The tail that wags, despite the stitches. He is there. And that is all I really need.