Weekend Onesie: Which Way You Going, Billy?

Weekend Onesie: 

Which Way You Going, Billy?

I had to say good-bye to one of my dearest friends last week. 

Billy was a Boston Terrier who came into my life because a co-worker was relocating to our Taiwan office and his ex-wife wouldn't take his two dogs. He knew I was a soft touch, so he asked me if I would take them. At the time, I already had two dogs, so I could only take on one. I asked my Mom, who had Pepper, an anxiety-ridden Jack Russell Terrier, if she would take on the other. 

Billy and his older brother, Atula, had been routinely kept in their kennels for up to 12 hours a day. The man who owned them? Not someone who should have been a pet owner. So, both dogs ended up having major issues. Atula had a number of underlying health conditions which resulted in behavioral and physical issues, so my partner and I took him on. 

It would turn out that Billy also had a number of issues. He was overly aggressive and badly socialized. He would also bite people, a rare trait for a Boston Terrier. My mother, along with my partner and I, all worked with him. 

We eventually discovered he was one of the sweetest, funniest, kindest animals with the biggest of hearts. He had this Ernest Borgnine way about him, blessed with an adorable bottom-toothed smile.

Last Friday, I was getting ready to go to the prairie when my ex knocked on my door. Billy had jumped off one of my mother's decks (only a foot high) and had broken his leg. I did not react well. It was a beautiful day and I had been looking forward to getting to the prairie, so I was pissed that life and circumstances had once again conspired to ruin my alone time.

All that anger evaporated once I arrived on scene. My mother was seated at the dining room table, still in her nightgown. She'd just gotten up to let the dogs out. Fortunately, she always watches them so she saw the incident happen. She was crying. Billy was already muzzled and looking sad. 

When people I love cry? I just start giving orders. My mother kept saying it was all her fault and I nicely explained that there was no way that she could have prevented this. Sometimes bad things just happen. 

The ex was outside, pacing and yelling at his phone. Billy's regular vet refused to see him and the emergency clinic was closed. He was getting a list of alternative places to try, but most of them were many, many miles away. I suggested the Broadway clinic. Billy's regular vet had refused at one point to give him a dental, so my mother took him there. Fortunately they agreed to see him. 

At this point, the ex continues to talk on the phone while I am desperate to get going. He keeps saying that the situation is not good and that Billy will have to be put down. My brain refuses to consider that. We don't even know what the situation is yet.

 Again, I start giving marching orders. I take Billy from my mother and tell her to go get dressed and meet us at the clinic. The ex is arguing with me about taking my car, but I already have it parked in front of my mother's house so I simply keep telling  him to get in the car and hold Billy while I drive. The ex tries to tell me how to drive and where to drive, but I'm not taking the bait... I just want to get to the clinic. 

Once there, we need masks and our vaccination record. The ex has neither. I have extra masks in the car, but without his vaccination record, he still can't come in. So, it's on me. 

They are super nice. I, of course, want immediate attention, but there is only one vet on duty, so Billy and I sit in a room. I fear he's in pain, so I keep talking to him to distract him, telling him what a good boy he is - and he is; he's being very still and quiet. My mother mentioned that she thought he was in shock, and that is what I fear now. 

The vet comes in. He's a very elderly gentleman and is very calm. The neighborhood his clinic is in is not very safe and he approaches me like I might yell at him. There is even a sign that says, "If you yell at our staff, you will be told to leave." The vet is very nice. 

My mother arrives and is ushered in. She's a mess, still crying. The vet tries to look at Billy's leg and, for the first time, Billy let's out a cry of pain. The vet barely touched it. He shows us a drawing of a dog's front leg and explains the likely break Billy has experienced. There is this small spur that fits in a hole of the elbow bone. The vet believes this has snapped off. 

We learn that Billy would have to be put under anesthesia in order to even x-ray the leg, let alone set it in a cast. We explain that can't happen. He's only 12 years old (they have a typical life span of 14), but he has a stage four heart murmur. His regular vet told us that Billy would not survive being put under anesthesia after his last dental, so that was not happening. 

My mother pressed for alternatives. The vet said he could be kept in a kennel for five months in the hope that the leg would form, but even if it did, it would be unusable. I told my mother that wasn't happening. Neither of us was in a position to take care of a dog under those conditions for that length of time and I thought the idea cruel. 

The vet left us to make a decision. And there really was only one answer. My mother had a hard time accepting it. I rubbed her back and explained the situation. With the facts acknowledged, we called the vet back in. Billy would have to be put down.

Then there was the matter of what to do with his remains. I always allow them to cremate, but my mother wanted to take Billy home and bury him in the backyard. The vet steps away as we discuss. I want to argue for cremation - it's simple, but my mother is in such a state I decide that it's best to simply do as she wishes.

The vet returns and Billy's given something to help him sleep.

It's a sad process. It never gets easier, no matter how many times I go through it. I stayed near Billy's face and talk to him as the pain med they gave him took affect, telling him over and over again what a good boy he was and how much he is loved. 

And how sorry I am. I am very, very sorry.

Despite his muzzle, he gave me one last bottom-toothed smile. It broke my heart, but at least I knew that he wasn't in pain anymore. The vet returned and gave him the final shot; the one that would stop his over-sized heart from beating. I talk to him the entire time. I never want to let them go without letting them know how much they are loved. 

We wrap Billy in his blanket and my mother sits in the passenger seat of my car, holding him. The ex drives her car. It's surreal. When we arrive at her house, I hold Billy - who I know is no longer bound in that blanket or trapped in that body. The ex digs a hole and I lay him in it. My sister, who is a year younger than me, has arrived from up north. That's a comfort. She'll spend the day with my mother. 

In the coming days, being at my Mom's house is all kinds of odd. Billy is not there to bring me one of his many bones or one of his blankets. He's not there to give kisses or sit on my lap. And there's no smiles to be had. 

Pepper, his companion, is very quiet and sad. She initially refuses to eat, but that passes with time. I give her extra attention. It helps.

The house seems so quiet and empty without him. That's the way with someone with such a big personality - they take up a lot of room. 

Later, my mother apologizes to me for some of the things she said. And, of course, I have to apologize to the ex for how I behaved, too. It seems that as I grow older, I am able to handle a crisis less and less.      

I do go to the prairie that day. And I'm glad I went. I read and walk around. It all serves as a good distraction. But one inescapable truth remains...

I sure loved that dog.

Which Way You Going, Billy?

The Poppy Family