Elvis

Put Elvis down on Wednesday 7 July. At 1:00 a.m. Monday morning the 5th, he was sleeping in my bed and started seizing, rolling over and over. I tried to calm him down, thinking that this was one of his heat seizures that he's sometimes had since he was young. But this was different. I could see the fear in his eyes, and he started to cry in ways I've never heard him cry before. After half an hour, I called the emergency animal clinic to ensure they were open, then drove him there. They immediately put him under sedative and I returned home at 3 a.m.

The 5th was a holiday, so I didn't work, but worried instead about Elvis all day. An afternoon conversation with the veterinarian explained that when he started to come out of sedative, he would start rolling again, indicating that this was not just a simple seizure, but likely something neurological. I began to think about putting him down for good.
Tuesday morning I transferred him to my personal veterinarian and they watched him where he stayed there and they gradually tried to take him off sedatives throughout the day. But I knew that he was not going to get better.

On Wednesday morning I drove to the veterinarian's office and asked to speak to the Dr. She explained what I already knew -- that it was likely something caused by a stroke or other neurological event, and that my few options included more observation, expensive CAT scans, or euthanasia. I had no choice, but more importantly, I had been thinking for nearly two days about how frightened Elvis had been this entire time. He had always been a sweet dog -- always trusting and seemingly complacent about whatever was happening at home. But for nearly two days he had been seizing, in pain, frightened, alone, and without me to talk to him and scratch his ears.

I went back to the kennel, opened his cage, and saw that he had pissed all over himself, but he was exhausted and yet his whole body was tense; I wonder if he had been trying to resist his own rolling actions for so many hours. I pulled him out, he recognized me, but couldn't lift his head much. I talked to him, making sure he could hear my voice; he started to cry some -- I know he wanted me to make it all better, take him home, away from the loud and hard and bright place of the vet's, let him sleep on my bed where it's warm and soft, without the pain and the fear. All I could do was scratch his ears and tell him he's a good dog, again and again. I think he felt resigned to what was happening, because he stopped crying, and although his body was still tense, and he went into his rolling seizures a few times, he tried to rest on my legs while I held him.



The doctor came in, injected the chemicals into his IV. He panicked toward the end as his heart stopped, and then went fully limp. I had been crying the whole time, since I walked into the office first, and now I had my dog dead in my arms. He was so limp, so soft, his eyes so empty. He looked like Elvis -- beautiful white and brown and black, beautiful face and sleek body, but Elvis was gone.

I got Elvis from a friend of a friend about 11 years ago -- I picked him up from her house in Little Rock. He was behind a fence in the back yard and when he saw me peer over the gate, immediately started to wag his tail ... and he rarely ever stopped wagging that tail over the last 11 years. He was perfectly loyal and friendly and smart and always happy to see me. I never minded him wanting to sleep on my bed and he followed me around wherever I went in the house. After his surgery two years ago, we couldn't take the long walks we were used to; sometimes he could only go a few hundred yards later before he got tired.

I have regrets of his last days. I took him and Rox out for a walk that Sunday morning, but it was hot. Likely the stress of the heat affected him and therefore his stroke was caused in some part by my actions with him. Then, when he was dead, I decided to be cheap and chose "general disposal" for his body instead of individualized cremation or burying him at home. I didn't want to bury him at home because I have no affection for the house, and when I move, I would only feel regret for leaving his body there. On the other hand, it's only a body now, and not Elvis, so disposal shouldn't be a concern. He wouldn't know either way. What I knew and loved so much as Elvis had already left.

And I did love him ... he had been such an important part of my lonely life for these many years, a dumb animal that I felt loved me more than any other in my life. I know we imagine so much of an animal's affection for us, but still they trust us and look to us for comfort. I tried to give him as much love and comfort and safety as I could and still wish I could have done more. I miss him so much.