I miss Buffy.
Last Friday would have been Buffy’s 9th birthday if she were still alive.
We had her for more than eight years, and in those eight years I was attached to her. I used feel like people think I’m really effing weird when I talk about how she was such an important part of my life, but you know what? I don’t care anymore. When she died, she left a huge whole in my heart that a bratty puppy can’t fill. She loved me, and I loved her.
Buffy didn’t bite my face when I sat down to pet her, or give her a hug. She didn’t steal food off the table, or dirty Kleenex from my trash, or socks from my bedroom. Once she was grown up, she didn’t chew anything that she wasn’t allowed to chew, and she didn’t destroy whatever we gave her. I loved Buffy, and Buffy loved me.
I will always remember how she would carry around her toys so gently, with care, and without ripping them to shreds, or actually sinking her teeth into them. She would hold her manatee, or her hawk, or her purple martin in her mouth like a good lab should, never hurting it.
She left that manatee in my room that last night. She slept on my bed the last night. Even though she was in a huge amount of pain, and could barely walk, let alone get up on the bed herself, she chose my bed to sleep on. I felt terrible for her. I gave her one of the sedatives that the vet told us to give her if she was in a lot of pain or couldn’t sleep, and I dipped it in peanut butter beforehand, like we did with all of her pills. Well, either peanut butter or cheese. Eventually she got smart enough to just eat the cheese off and then spit the pill back out.
One Christmas, Buffy went on a chocolate-eating rampage. Any chocolate we had in the house, accessible or not, Buffy found it, ripped it open, and devoured every last little bit. We were so scared that she was going to die then. Turns out that you dog won’t die unless he/she eats more than 5% of their body weight in chocolate, because of the amount of cocoa. It is, however, addictive to dogs, but still harmful, like cocaine. Buffy went through some withdrawal after, being very naughty and really hyper. I remember that more often than not she would take the wrapper, whole, off the chocolate before eating it, but eventually just ate it all because it was chocolate and because she could.
Buffy would eat anything. Whatever you threw to her, she would catch in her mouth, then either swallow it or spit it out. One time I threw a small rock to her, and she caught it in her mouth then looked offended when it wasn’t edible. She loved carrots as a puppy, and would eat them a lot, but as she got older she became pickier, eating foods that she liked better, often biting the carrots, then spitting it and the bits that came off onto the floor for someone to clean up. Once, when my parents were out of the country for vacation, my nan was over, and had brought Oktoberfest sausages for my brothers and I to have for lunch. These were biiig sausages too. Naturally, I had mine on a bun, with ketchup. As I reached across the counter to get something, sausage and bun in hand, I squeezed a bit too hard and it flew out, right to Buffy. All she did was open her mouth and swallow, then, of course, looked for more. I was dumbfounded. My sausage completely disappeared.
During the last couple of weeks with Buffy we let her do whatever she wanted. If she wanted to go up on the sofa, she could. If she wanted food from the table, she got it. If she wanted to have a bone, she got it too. She didn’t take advantage of all of this, though. She was a great dog, and knew her place, what she could and couldn’t do, and stuck to it the till the end. She did have trouble getting up onto beds, up the stairs, and onto the couch though, because she was so bloated.
Buffy had a heart tumor.
Nobody saw this coming. We have no idea how she got it, but she did. My mom was walking Buffy at one of my brother’s baseball games when she collapsed on the ground, which scared my mom. Buffy was having trouble breathing, too, and my mom knew something was wrong. I was in Florida at the time, so I had no idea that any of this was going on. I found out when I went to the Apple Store with Tonya’s parents, in Florida, and was stealing the WiFi there when I saw my brother had changed his status to something along the lines of “Bad news guys, my dog has a heart tumor and only a couple days to live.” Looking back I’m kind of furious about that. Anyways, I was in a panic about it, my mind reeling and sticking in a state of denial. No, it couldn’t be. I showed Tonya, and she was startled and skeptical about it as well. Then everything started to sync up. My other brother had posted “Shit just happens so fast” on his Facebook, because he’s extremely classy. Tonya’s parents noticed that I wasn’t being loud and obnoxious like I usually am on shopping trips, so they asked if everything was alright. Evidently it wasn’t, and Ton and I told them.
When we got back to the resort, Tonya’s dad let me use his blackberry (and work minutes) to call home and see what was going down. My mom was shocked to hear from me of course, and disappointed that I had to find out that way. They had decided not to tell me until I came back from Florida, which was a couple days after.
Buffy had a heart tumor that had grown so much in size that it had split, releasing fluids originally intended to help heal the split into her abdomen and lower body. Her lungs were being pushed a bit, which explained the trouble breathing after that walk. The fluid, mostly made up of water, sugar, some protein, and a little blood kept seeping further and further down her body, because of the pressure of it. Her abdomen was so full that it eventually moved into her back paws, bloating them, making them look padded. Her chest, outside of her ribcage also filled up with fluid, and you could feel it if you pet her, because of the lab-flab she had there.
Soon she stopped eating so much. She would leave kibble in the bowl and not touch it for a while. She didn’t move around much, if she could help it. She stopped going on walks with anybody except my mom, and wouldn’t even go with me, which shocked me. We could tell she was getting worse and worse, and suspected the end of Buffy’s days were coming.
On the last night, before I gave her the sedative, I curled up with Buffy on the end of my bed, and explained to her, to me, that it was almost time for her to go. I didn’t know until that night that it would be the next morning. I had some time with Buffy. I came to accept the fact that she was going. I came to accept the fact that no matter how hard Buffy fought it, how hard she tried to act like she was okay, she wasn’t going to get better. I accepted it, but I didn’t like it one bit. I didn’t like that even though she wouldn’t be in any more pain, she would be gone forever. I cried with Buffy, on my bed, where she spent so many night and was welcome for every single one of them.
The next day my parents called the vet, who knew about our situation, and they sent some whores in a van who do this for a living. They explained what they were going to do, and we had a little bit with Buffy. My brothers took it harder than I did, because I think I had gotten out everything they needed to get out the night before, when I knew that it was coming soon. We brought Buffy into the living room, where we moved the coffee table and got her to lay down on a blanket with us. The women gave Buffy a heavy sedative, much more powerful and legitimate than the pills we were told to give her. They injected it into her tail, with a tube that they kept in for the next injection, which made her yelp a bit, but we had to hold her down. When she felt the sedative starting to go to work, she tried to stand up, but was too weak because of it, and was trembling just trying to keep standing. I saw this as a sign that it was too early, that she could make it a couple more days. She was in pain though, and I didn’t want her to be in such discomfort any longer. It was a terrible situation.
Then it was time for the bad stuff. They put it in, and I knew it was all over. At this point she couldn’t even keep her head up, and was resting it on my brother’s leg. I was rubbing her back, trying to let her know that everything would be okay, even though we both knew it wouldn’t. Soon the shaking stopped, and I could see Buffy leaving us. Buffy went limp, and was gone.
After, when we were all crying, laying there with what was our dog, I was rubbing the fur on her back, feeling the warmth leave, and the difference between this body and the wonderful dog that had made my life what it was for the last eight years. It was time for Buffy to go. The women carried Buffy out to the truck they came in, and yep, it was official, that was the worst day of my life.
I still miss Buffy, and sincerely wish she could be here right now, healthy and sleeping on my bed, where she spent her last night, and many before that. It took a long time for me to come to terms with the fact that she was indeed gone. Every time I came home to an empty house, I was lonely. Every time I dropped food on the floor, and had to pick it up myself, I was reminded. When I wanted to get out of the house, but couldn’t take the dog for a walk, I remembered. And every time I walked into my room, looked at my bed, and saw a big black something on the bed, my hopes would soar, then the lights would turn on and the hole that had been healing would rip back open again.
This went on for a couple months, and I still miss my dog. We have Max now, but Max is different. He’ll take some getting used to, but will never be the same amazing dog that Buffy was.
