ELIZABETH INGOLIA Big Dog

BIG DOG

By Elizabeth Ingolia

She was sick and I knew it.

Generally, when an active, young dog lies on the floor for three days straight without getting up to eat, drink, or relieve itself, something is wrong. Her name was Annie, but I always just called her “Big Dog” or “Mutt” instead. She was eight years old, with a pointy-poodle nose and a slender body, covered in tight curls of soft, apricot fur. Her eyes sparkled like tiny black stars through the messy mop of curls that grew atop her head. She had a unique look about her, and a unique personality to match. It was summer. I remember her looking up at me from the cool floor of my bedroom, her eyes afraid and urgent, but still sparkling like always. She still wagged her tail, still lifted her head, but refused to get up. I even resorted to offering her cheese from across the room, which is impossible to resist, even for most humans. But to my disappointment, she was completely disinterested and would not take anything. I told my parents that she didn't seem healthy, that something was definitely wrong, but they kept putting off taking her to the vet. That weekend we had scheduled a workday with my grandma, where I was supposed to spend the night at her house and clean up for her, and that was more important to them than a sick dog. And as reluctant as I was to go, my parents insisted that it would only be a day and that everything would be fine when I returned.

“Come on, Liz,” my dad beckoned, swinging his key ring around his index finger while I finished up getting ready. “We gotta go, before it gets too dark.”

“Okay, but you have to promise to take Annie to the vet’s in the mor-

“ -Yeah, I will, as soon as I have a day off to work. Let’s go.” Annie, for some reason, had chosen my room as her resting place, so I went back to say goodbye to her before I left for the night. She was in the same position that she had been for the past two days (no surprises there) flopped down on her side on the floor at the foot of my bed. She lifted her head to greet me with sad, sparkly eyes. “Big Dog, what’s wrong?” I cooed, kneeling down to stroke her fluffy head. She pressed her chin down against the smooth wood floor, still looking up at me, as if she was expecting me to do something to help her. “What do you want me to do, huh? What’s wrong?” Realizing that I was short on time, I said goodbye, kissed the top of her pink nose, flicked off the lights, and made my exit. My dad and my brother accompanied me on the drive to my grandma’s house. We arrived within fifteen minutes, and were able to help her clean her dishes and do her laundry before my dad received an alarming phone call. “Yeah, uh-huh, we’ll head home right now.” I could hear the static hum of my mom’s voice through the cheap cellphone speaker. My dad continued to talk. “Yeah, I think they’re open after-hours… I’ll be home soon, uh-huh, yeah, bye.” Apparently my sister had finally noticed our dog’s poor health, and had forced my mom to go in and examine her. They found that her gums were a sickly whitish color, and that the whites of her eyes were tinged yellow. Knowing that something was probably going on with her liver function, I prepared for the worst and told my dad and brother to rush home as quickly as possible.

I wish they had taken me with them. No cleaning got done that night. The next couple of hours were filled with anxious waiting and various stories of my grandma losing past dogs. Her voice seemed to drone on and on as she remembered one dog’s death after another. There’s nothing like trying to remain calm when somebody’s constantly reminding you of the thing you’re worrying about… And then, at last, a text. It was my mom, letting me know that they had taken Annie to the after hours vet for some testing. My dad had rushed her there after she had peed blood, and then proceeded to collapse on the grass at home. She had a high fever and, like I had thought, her organs were failing. Apparently she was going down fast. The vet didn’t know why and was still waiting for the results of the tests. I flipped the keyboard out on my phone, texted, “Keep me posted,” and then told my grandma that I was heading to bed for the night. I took a shower to ease my anxiety, hoping and praying that the vet could fix her. I think at that point I knew that there was nothing they could really do, but I wanted there to be something. I kept telling myself that she would be fine. They would figure something out, right? I didn’t want to lose my dog. She had been with me through some bad moments and was such a source of comfort; I couldn't imagine going home to a house without her.

Of course, a few hours later, my mom sent another text. The results of the test showed that Annie’s red blood cell count was basically nonexistent and that her immune system was attacking her organs. The vet defined it as some sort of rare autoimmune disease. The options were either to do blood transfusion after blood transfusion in hopes that it would help, or to put her down.