This is the most difficult page for me but I want to write about his final day. I spent eleven wonderful years with him but it's the final eighteen hours that haunt me.
I can't stop reliving them and wondering if I could have done anything different to have eased his pain.
It was a Saturday night, April 26th, we went to bed as always and he was fine. I woke up at 1:30 in the morning to him having what appeared to be a seizure. I brought him to the emergency vet hospital and they said that it seemed that he'd had a seizure and that he should be fine, just to keep a close eye on him.
I slept with him on the floor that night. He wouldn't stop panting.
By 5:30 a.m. I called the vet to say that he was having trouble breathing. She thought that was odd as it should not have been a side effect of a seizure, but told me to let her know in a few hours if he didn't improve.
I brought him back to the hospital at 7 a.m.
It was then that they told me that he had pneumonia. They recommended giving him an I.V. with fluids, antibiotics and putting him an oxygen tank.
I left him there and went to spend the day at a family birthday party.
When I stopped by to visit him at 5 pm. he was still having trouble breathing so I didn't take him out of the oxygen tank. He was sitting with his back to me facing the wall, and when he heard my voice he turned his head and glanced over his shoulder. His eyebrows were raised in the center and he looked at me as if pleading, "Please make the pain go away. Please take me away from here."
I had been with him for eleven years and had never seen that look and it's that look that haunts me. I should've known then that something was terribly wrong.
I should've known that this was a dog that was used to sleeping 22 out of 24 hours a day. For him to have been awake and in physical stress for fifteen hours, his body couldn't take it. I should've taken him out of the oxygen tank and just held and comforted him.
But I thought I was doing the right thing by leaving him and I believed that after a night of medication and oxygen that he'd come home with me the next day. I left him.
Two hours later, I got the call from the hospital telling me to come quickly, that they thought he was "trying to go" and had collapsed. They asked me if I wanted to revive him if he went before I got there and I said no.
I drove the few miles to the hospital, praying for him to wait for me.
When I got there, the vet told me that his heart had stopped but that it had just started again. I believe that he knew I was coming and was hanging on, waiting for me.
He was lying on the table and it was obvious that he was in severe distress. His eyes were open but he would not blink. He could not lift his head. The vet said that all his vital signs were bad and that he was suffering. She asked if I wanted her to get the needle to put him out of his misery and I said yes. She also asked if I wanted a few moments alone with him and I, of course, said yes.
She took out all the needles and tubes and handed him to me and I took him into a room alone. I patted and kissed his head and thanked him for being such a wonderful dog and told him over and over how much I loved him. He rested his head against my shoulder and within a couple of minutes, his breathing slowed, then stopped.
He was gone.
I sat quietly with him as his spirit quietly and gently floated away.
When the vet came in with the needle, I told her that he didn't need it. He was already gone.
I will always be grateful for being there with him during his final moments and will always regret that I didn't pick him up and hold him when he turned and gave me that sad look. It's etched in my mind and I will never forget it. I will always feel like although I spent 11 wonderful years with him that I let him down during his final hours when he needed me most.
Chinga passed away on April 27, 2008 at 7:15 p.m. He was a great little dog and I miss him dearly.
