I had my first pet just before the summer ended when I was 10. And just like any other kid growing up alone who experienced how to have a younger sibling, a permanent playmate for the first time, the joy was indescribable. I remember putting her on leash and dragging her everywhere I go. She was an ordinary askal I named Barbie. But due to too many appliances at home that she had broken by chewing off the plug, better halves of the pairs of slippers she had scattered across the yard which some never found, and a closet of my grandfather he ransacked, my Lolo had no choice but to put her in chains when my classes began. My heart broke into a million pieces seeing her lifeless by the post where she was chained one afternoon after school.
That was my first bitter taste of loss and I never dared to have another dog to call mine after that. My mom would get another one later when I was already in high school who lived until I was working, but I didn’t remember attending to her food even once, or giving her a bath. It was a conscious effort not to get attached. I would always refer to her as my mom’s dog, not ours. It was the pain of losing an innocent pet that I dreaded most.
I suck most in dealing with loss. Because behind the tough front, my inside crumbles with the thought of longing a loss brings. A death always signifies a chapter of my life coming to an end and an epilogue of a lingering pain.
When A talked to me of getting a new dog through his officemate on mid-September, I agreed because of two reasons: 1) to get my mind off from the gnawing pain of losing my mom a few months back; and 2) I thought I was ready.
Our first meeting was loved at first sight. It was kind of love a mom has seeing her baby for the first time. I guess partly because it was a commitment my boyfriend and I made. A major decision we both agreed. The act was simple, nothing phenomenal, but after 2 decades of alienating myself to any pets in great fear of loss, it was liberating. Or I guess, I just fell for the sad eyes of the lab.
I took Tyra to Batangas and let my family take care of her there. There was still the fear consuming me in my nightmares that was relieved seeing her active and agile on weekends I come home. I just love her. My heart aches knowing how much I loved her. Oftentimes I would check her on her sleep just to touch her.
Until just 5 days short before she turned 3 months that she suddenly refused to eat the dinner I prepared for her. I was in panic. Tyra never ever turn down any food. She had so much appetite for anything that she can put inside her mouth or just anything her stomach can accommodate. The next day she was not her usual self anymore. She refused to leave the spot where she sleeps during the day. I also stopped eating. I didn’t know what to do. For three days, I will bring her to the local vet who initially suspected her for Parvo due to the vaccine she missed. She gets a little better after given meds, eat a little then gets back to her withdrawal the next morning. It was a torture. I would wake up on wee hours of the morning to check her temperature. On a Monday morning, thinking she was getting better, I left for Manila. But the fear was nagging me knowing from my brother she didn’t get any better. I took I leave on a Tuesday to pick her up and take to a reputable vet clinic.
She was confined for five days. I am not rich and the bill was hiked up to my neck but I didn’t mind. (I just prayed mom won’t get up from her grave and knock me over with some senses). I was draining my savings account. There were series of lab tests with results pointing to a liver disease. With the professionals diagnosing the problem I was optimistic the battle was half-won. But still, I wasn’t that confident not seeing her old self. She stays with A’s place (with his mom to take care of her) after the confinement. There were tons of meds and a strict diet to follow, there were series of lab tests again to determine the source of the problem that required her vet on a house call. The first two weeks was taxing. I feigned sickness so that I could take a leave from work and attend to what she needed. I can’t concentrate at work and there were times I would just suddenly burst out on tears. My world was rocked. I would often ask: why didn’t I acquire the sickness instead of her? There was nothing on my mind. I would pray earnestly at night that she gets back to her old self. But deep in my heart I know she’s not and it makes the ordeal more painful. I was reminded of the last days of my mom in the hospital when only the high dosage of drugs was sustaining her life. It was the succession of chemicals forced into her veins that were circulating in her system.
Until the last batch of the last tests were discussed to me by her vet. Tyra has portosystemic shunt - it was a congenital defect that can only be corrected by a surgical partial ligation. the blood vessel that connects the gastrointestinal tract with the liver does not metabolize the toxic ammonia into a lesser toxic form. The toxin goes the directly to the system leaving the ammonia unchanged. Her condition is complicated… too complicated. And not even a surgery, which is also not yet done here in the Philippines, can guarantee correction of the problem.
I stopped researching on the internet, I can’t understand medical terms anyway, I stopped talking to her vet, we can only offer symptomatic treatment. I know the meds were just delaying the inevitable. But I can’t stop crying. Each night I go down on my knees praying for a miracle - that on a New Year’s eve, she’s back to her old self and we will be by the street to watch the fireworks dance. I hate fireworks, but I want to see it on the New Years eve if she makes it. But that’s a long way to go… And I don’t know if she can make it free from all the threats and pains.
Currently reading: silent whispers - mcnaught
Currently watching: heroes
Currently feeling: blank
