Lexy

Lexy

In 2010 there were three members to my family. Lexy loved to RV, so I guess, that made us an RV family...

My buddy of endless years ago is gone. My constant companion for 18 years. She was in my lap while I drove; She was my RV buddy, and went down countless trails; She slept with us, always close to our sides; We sat together on the couch, always together, side by side. She would lie on the back of the couch with her head on my shoulder. She would pull my socks off when I came home from work. After they were removed, she would shake each furiously. She would bring balls and stuffed animals and place in my lap. She would bring me her leash to go for a walk. She had a fantastic memory. When I asked her to bring me her leash, she would remember exactly were it was, excitedly run off, then come trotting back, head held high, dragging a leash behind her.

Lexy in night bed. "Night bed" was the same as ours. It was called "Night-Night".

Lexy with big black eyes.

Lexy on couch, on a towel. She usually automatically stayed on her pads.

It all began to change about three years ago, and I did not know it. She was still my Lexy. Long ago, Lexy and I would have contests to see who could run faster. We ran about the same speed. We loved to compare running during our walks. If I would tire first, and sit down in the grass exhausted, she would come to me, put her front paws in my lap, and softly bark in my face; "Lets go again." One of the first things that I did not notice then, was that she would trot less, and walk casually more. We were both slowing down together, and it was hard to notice.

During the day, each dog had a bed if they wanted. They never fought at all. Both dogs loving.

We got puppy Callie when Lexy was 15 years old. Callie's leash would be pulling out in front, and Lexy's leash would be dragging up the rear. I would be in the middle with arms extended in differen directions. With arms in this configuration is when I first noticed that something was wrong. But no problem; Just wait a little longer. No problem; Just have Callie walk slower. Then, Lexy could not jump up on the coach. Both dogs had to sit with us, and Lexy could not stand to be left out. Again, no problem; Just give her a little lift and a thoughtless smile, and we were again a family. Another thing that I did not notice: I began to carry her more than usual, up steep hills or over rocks. I did not mind at all.

I taught her not to bark when she wanted something. Instead, she indicated her wishes with a special grunt. It was a grunt-bark. But I was hearing that grunt more and more. At night, I would hear that grunt to be lifted into bed with us. A year after that, we were hearing that grunt to be lifted down from bed. Then came the time when she weighed 18 pounds. She was a porker, and she could not go down the steps. Now, THAT I noticed! She could come up the steps, but could not go down the steps. I built a long 20 foot ramp to bypass the steps. She loved it. She was getting older but could still run up that ramp. In fact, she loved that ramp. She had the biggest black eyes. In younger years, she would excitedly jump into bed with us. Get right in my face with those black eyes, give a quick single lick to my nose, then a lick to my hand if it was near, and curl up next to us for the night. She was so happy. Those days slipped away silently without me noticing.

There were other changes too, slight at first. Lexy would sleep more, and suddenly awake, to see if we were leaving. Her worst fear was that we would leave. Usually we were not. Our other dog, Callie would run and grab her ear if we were leaving. She would give it a tug. Callie learned early that it was in her best interest to get Lexy. If Lexy was going then she was going. As a puppy, Callie was bumping into Lexy as she played. So with every casual encounter with Callie, perhaps an off course fly-by, Lexy would awake, stand straight up, and look to me, just in case we were leaving. Usually, another false alarm from the klutzo.

Lexy standing on sink in the back of the van. One back door open.

Both woofers loved the van. It became an RV when we slept in it. I had the back seat configured as a bed that was the same height as the windows. The doggies loved to lie on the bed, looking out of the windows. The doggies were able to lie down and still comfortably look out of the windows. That can not be done with a car or SUV. There was room to run and play, and they always had water and food in the van. It was so pleasant and convenient for them. Lexy would fall asleep, looking out the window in the last direction that we left. She would spring to life, tail waving high in the air when we returned. Her eyes were not only big and black, but could see us from afar. I could see her stand up in the window as we approached, and as we got closer, her tail would start to wag in the window. She would not do that with other people.

Then her sparkling clear eyes began to cloud. First her left eye, and a half year later, her right. The cloudiness was cataracts, and nothing could be done. But no problem; Lexy fixed that by using her sniffer more. But it was used too much: Once I saw a snake crawl two feet in front of her, as it crossed the trail. To my horror, with her damn nose on the ground, she did not see it! She was oblivious, and that is too much sniffing. But I guess, worth it for Lexy, as in her own limited way, She was still having fun. She could not see well, and the only time she could safely run, was on the sandy beaches of Fort Bragg. On the soft beaches with no obstacles, she ran as when she was young. She would seem to pin her ears back and run. First in one direction, and then stop, turn around, and run back toward us. She would pass us in the other direction, stop and turn around again, and do it again. She never tired of running by us, as if she wanted somehow to share the experience. As Linda and I walked along the beach, we were her constant focal point, her reference point in all of life.

During the long trips to Fort Bragg, Lexy began to breath heavily. After only an hour in the van, she would be panting, and obviously in some kind of distress. Curves made it worse. I knew it to be motion sickness, as she no longer could get on the bed, nor could she see well out of any windows. Both are important in motion sickness. I stopped the van often to let her out, and be on stable ground, and to stop panting. It always worked. We endured the inconvenience; She was part of the family. But once back under way, she would be in distress again. She would get in my lap while driving, and then press her head backwards into my stomach. Or she would twist her head up along my chest, and look at my face. This meant that she was not feeling well, and wanted me to help her. I felt so sorry for her, and I would damn well help her. Fort Bragg is exactly 200 miles, and because of my dear buddy, the trip always took two days. But that is OK; RV live is a pleasure for the whole family. Other people could make the trip in five hours; We took two days. Literally! We would stop often, and sleep one night in the Casino parking lot. Lexy would be fit as a fiddle the next morning and raring to go again. Despite her motion sickness and eye sight, she was still happy to be with us, and to take the trips. RV live was one of her greatest joys. That is a total of four days of travel, and a week of beaches and trails, along with lawn chairs, and little doggy rugs on the ground. We all four loved the cool salty ocean breeze. The RV gave Lexy other places too; Lakes and streams, deserts and mountains. A dogs life can be a good life. Lexy loved life and was so willing to pay the price for it. I loved her so much.

Lexy was faithful. The doggies had to use a Dogie Door, a ramp, and a sidewalk, to get to the back yard to pee or poop. The doggies had totally different approaches to the problem. In 18 years Lexy has never had an accident inside the house. I don't count when she was dieing. That is a remarkable history. Lexy was potty trained as a baby puppy within two days. Completely potty trained for peeing and pooping in two days! That is a remarkable feat too. To do this, I purchased a 1 x 10 inch board, and placed it in the sliding door. I cut a hole in the board for a dogie door. I cut a piece of cardboard for the door, and supported it with string so that it would swing. The first cardboard door only covered about half the hole. I taught Lexy to go through the door for no reason except a reward on the other side. She loved to go through the door just for the approval from me, and reward. I noticed that the approval from me ment more to her than the reward. Then the next step was to use the door to go to the bathroom. She got it straight away, and never forgot it. For 17 years she still got excited to return through the door. She would burst through the door, with her big black eyes excitedly searching for me. She would run over to me for a pet on the head for a great accomplishment. I would never disappoint her. I would always pet her, and tell her "what a good job on the pooper!" Sadly it became routine for me. But never for her! The excitement never wavered, and was as just as new and real as the first time when she was a baby puppy.

Lexy was always near me; my constant companion...

Lexy grew to be involved in whatever I was doing. She did not get in the way. She just wanted to be near.


She loved being faithful. The faithfulness became painfully clear, but impressive, when each time it was raining and cold outside. Lexy would go out the dogie door, the same as Callie. That part was the same. But Lexy would go down the long ramp, and then along the long sidewalk, all the while rain pounding down on her body, getting soaking wet. She was determined to do it as taught, and she did it that way always; always, for 17 years. She would return cold and soaking wet, never to disappoint. I never taught her to suffer the pain and hardship. She learned it on her own. Or maybe, she was born with it. As a side note: when it was too cold outside, Callie would only go just past the doggie door, and jump back inside. Lexy was strong against pain, and always endured it. And endured it to the very end of her life, true to form, in the same stoical manner.

Lexy at 16 years. Nearly blind in both eyes. Nearly deaf both ears.

Lexy was practically blind in both eyes. The right eye was her best eye, with some light perception. And the beginning of the end came the day that we were at Clear Lake. First, let me set the scene: The shores of Clear Lake are littered with dead fish. Signs are posted to keep your dogs from coming into contact with the water. The stench from the shores is unpleasant. The signs state that Clear Lake is only a "Catch and Release" lake. And no fish are fit for human consumption. For many decades the lake has had high levels of bacteria and mercury. And the people that live nearby are stupid, and only tourists carry living dogs or cats. So, the problem is real, and would impact the life of my dog Lexy. We took a walk out on the water break which extended out into the lake. Lexy could not see, and as always, I was signaling her with the leash for obstacles. It was easy. She trusted me totally to tug right or left around rocks, poles, and drop offs. Occasionally, I would forget and she would bump into something. But she would always recover and carry on. It was nothing, she seemed to thing because she was with me.

We were at the end of the water break, about 10 feet above the water, and also were the water was deep. Linda screamed! And as I turned, I felt the leash run out with a terrible tug. I saw Lexy falling toward the water, The momentum of her falling body tore her out of her harness, and her body continued down into the water. Lexy's head popped back up at the surface of the water. But just barely. I threw my wallet and cell phone in the direction towards Linda, and prepared to jump in. I hesitated for a moment as the pier leg was only inches away from Lexy, and it had a cement ledge that she could hang on to. If she could only see it! She made two circles to the left, each time passing it by, and missing it just by inches. Painfully apparent, I realized that she could not see! Also, she could not swim. The top of her little white head would be down before she could make a third turn. That was clear. I jumped in, landing beside her. Lifted her body with one hand the best I could. When my feet could reach the bottom, I lifted her body really high, her body totally out of the water! God, we were so happy. I wadded past a dead carp, a foot or two from my face. I could see people filming from the shore with cell phones. They were shouting, and glad we made it. Once safely on shore, we needed to wash all the stinking crap off. Unfortunately, we did not have the trailer with its bathroom. We had a rental car. I discretely took my shoes off and pants off, put on a dry pair so as not to contaminate the car seat. We got to a motel and we got showered, but it was too late. I had a small cut on my elbow, that began to swell the size of a lemon. We both got a bad case of diarrhea, and I had to carry Lexy out every five minutes where she only managed a drop or two each time. We threw away my shoes, and bagged the contaminated clothes. I thought the worst was over, and by the third day I was wearing a pair of new shower thongs in public, and Lexy was back to sniffing along the paths. But it was not over.

Lexy. Right eye removed. Left eye hazy.

Back home, Lexy began rubbing her right eye a little. Then after about three days she began shaking and crying in pain. We rushed her to Oak Valley with some ugly yellow discharge in her eye. They did not think they could save her eye. You have got to be kidding! They made an albumen serum from her blood to help with her eye, as well as other medications. One for Dry Eye, one for Glaucoma, and one topical Antibacterial for Infection. For several days she was in bed a lot. And then, once again as I had always done, I got the serum from the refrigerator. And it was very cold. I accidentally put too much in her eye. The damn serring had stuck. I flooded her eye with cold liquid. That much had to be a shock to her eye. Five minutes later she was frozen in place, shaking in pain, and standing in the middle of a puddle of urine. I started to clean it up and discovered two drops of blood mixed in to form a pink area. Suddenly looking up, in horror, I could see there was blood in her eye! It had erupted! Again, we rushed her down to Oak Valley, where the Emergency Doctor said the eye had to be removed. Or, the other option: if we choose, or did not have the two thousand, was to put her down. No way! Not my Lexy. I will pay anything. Anything! Later, when I had calmed down, I asked another Doctor if he thought I could get one more year with her. He said "a fair chance". They said for most people it boils down to the money. For me, they wanted 50% down that night. I paid it just to stop the pain in both of us, and not have to think about that other, "unspeakable", alternative.

But the pain did not stop. For the next four nights, Lexy would cry herself to sleep. I would watch for an hour for the crying to slow and finally stop as she fell asleep. Then I could also go to sleep. She was such a strong dog. Still, in the mornings, she managed to find her dogie door, waddle down the ramp, and almost falling over at times from loss of balance. I wanted her to struggle to pee on her own. And she did. I felt I was fighting with her. She is a real trouper. As time progressed, then she no longer could find the dogie door. She would stand in the general area, frozen, and groan out a bark. A special bark saying she was in need and asking for help. I would very gently and slowly guide her to the door that she could not see. I thought that with any regression, she would never regain it. I would hand carry her to her water bowl, hand carry her to the dogie door, and gently push her through. Within a another week or two, she could no longer go down the ramp, which was another devastating concession. I accepted the regression as permanent, and I whispered to Lexy, for the rest of her life, to carry her out to pee, and carry her back. Once made, it was an unbreakable pact between the two of us. In fact, I would lay in bed waiting to hear a little grunt telling me she had to go out. I never complained about grabbing the flashlight and shoes, and carrying her to the back yard, and waiting, and carrying her back in. I actually was happy to do it.

I doubted my decision. Once in a while, she would send out a terrifying bark, a loud shrill crying bark. It was a desperate bark of immediate need; of life and death consequences. And it was not to go to the bathroom; It was one of terror and despair with her life. I can not explain these barks, unless she knew the end was near. In agony, I doubted my decision. Then came the night that Lexy was groaning in pain more than usual, the crying slowed and she finally went back to sleep. The next morning we discovered her eye had erupted in the night. I calmly made an appointment to see Dan at Oak Valley the next day. This time there was no panic, no urgency. Just somber resignation. Such a dire decision would be a slow and deliberate one. I kept Lexy sedated with a pain pill, and her eye bandaged. I fed her the best I could find: canned chicken, and chicken broth poured over her most expensive food. I thought of a prisoner's Last Meal. As I steadied her body in my hands, she ate slowly, but ate it all. "Good girl!" I gently carried her back to bed. It would be her second to last meal.

Linda and I awoke that final day, both crying, wanting to go to the appointment, and not wanting to go to the appointment. Yesterday, I had called back to Oak Valley a couple of more times modifying the nature of the appointment. I told them after the doctor visit, it would be a euthanasia appointment. A standard doctor would handle the appointment, with Dan dropping in as a friend, and then the euthanasia phase would begin. I continually played it in my mind, all along the way to the appointment: This is the last time Lexy will go out to the car; This is the last time Lexy will ride in the van; This is the last smells of home she will ever smell. On the way, Linda was kissing her on top of her head, and it brought her tail to a brisk wave.

As Linda and I sat in the room, Lexy would squirm in discomfort. She would be held by Linda and then held by me, never satisfied. No matter how we tried to comfort her, she was never content. Soon she had an IV in her arm, the pain of which being nothing compared to what she was used to. The newest pain did not even phase her. She looked up toward my face in a plea, with arched back, chin on my chest. Lexy was trying to look through the big ugly bandage totally covering her face. Not seeing my face, she sadly resigned her head to my lap again. Her head pressed against my stomach as if she had motion sickness in days past. I wished that it was as simple as that, and I really was driving a car, and I could stop it. Lexy stopped squirming in my lap and lovingly pressed against me, as if waiting patiently for me to stop the car. She was patiently waiting for me. It was at this time that Dr. Dan came in and explained the two vials. One a sedative, and the other to stop her heart. Lexy was finally comfortable in my lap. I did not want to disturb her as Dan talked. At the end of the IV was a membrane that a needle could be admitted. Dan took the first vial, full of a honey colored substance, stuck it through the membrane and into the IV. He very slowly pushed the plunger down, a little at a time. I felt Lexy release her head pressure against my stomach, and her head rolled slightly, rolled away into a more relaxed normal straight ahead position. She was now resting, perhaps asleep. I thought Dan would give Linda and I a few moments before administering the second vial. Because this was it. But no! He quickly followed with the second, and pushed the plunger all the way down, and fast. Lexy never moved at all. Never reacted at all. I picked up her head. It was limp. Unbelievably limp. I picked up her foot. It was limp. I caressed each part of her limp harm body in my hands. Her neck, her ears, her back, her belly. In all her life her body was never this limp. It could not be this limp! I announced to all in the room, that I have never seen her so peaceful. It was so easy to let her go. She was so peaceful and happy. I had put her through a lot of pain, so much pain, and all selfishly because of me. My little cute buddy of 18 years was gone, and I would never see those big black eyes again. I would never see those big black eyes looking with excitement at my face. ...Ever again.