The day we came home without a dog

Mojo giving kisses. 

“Mojo, do you want to go outside?” I called up the stairs like I had every morning for 10 years.  

I expected a splat, the sound of nails scrambling across the floor, and then the metal-on-metal jangle of a dog collar as a 74-pound ball of tan and black fluff would come bounding down the stairs. 

 

But that day, I heard the splat of him jumping down from our queen size bed. I heard him pad over to the stairs, but he didn’t clamber swiftly down at all. He just parked himself on the third step and didn’t come. 

 

Mojo had been diagnosed with arthritis at age 3. X-rays showed a talon-like bone-spur on his elbow. It meant no more dog park visits and that he had to keep his weight down. These days, mobility was becoming an issue. He took more breaks on walks and took longer and longer naps during the day. Had he played too hard the night before? Was playing catch with his orange ball too hard on his joints? 

I met him at the stairs and coaxed him down the stairs, one at a time, just like I did when he was a 6-pound teddy-bear faced puppy.  

 

We adopted Mojo when he weighed 4 pounds.
He grew to 74 pounds. 

Outside, he walked as far as the bushes bordering the porch, not even venturing to the yard. He didn’t even have the energy to lift his leg to pee.

 

Inside, he collapsed in a heap on the middle of the floor, not even making it to the food bowl. I held my hand out and offered him diced sweet potato—so soft he wouldn’t even have to chew. I remembered puppy class, when the instructor told us to hand-feed our puppies kibble one piece at a time to bond with them. 

 

One bite. To make me happy. Then a second. Then nothing. His left leg started spasming. 

 

I looked at Mojo and decided that we’d move our bed downstairs. No more stairs for our senior dog. 

 

Only, Mojo’s eyes widened, and shoulders heaved. 

My husband carried Mojo to the car. Mojo usually loved car rides. That day, he just sat there attempting to perk up a few times, but too weary to watch his surroundings. 

 

Matt getting Mojo out of the car at the vet. 

At the vet

 

At the vet, Mojo would usually spring out of the Subaru, unable to wait to start his round of goofy grins and kisses for all the vet techs and employees. On that day, he just sat on his beach towel, breathing heavily, desperately in trouble.

 Matt hoisted Mojo up, his arms under the dog’s torso, not wanting to waste a single second.

 

Maybe the sight of a grown man carrying a large dog in what surely be the “this dog just got hit by a car” pose is a red alert for vet techs, because the vet employees rushed out to meet us and ushered us into the side door and into the cat exam room, closest to us. There was no time to walk the 20 feet to the dog exam room. 

Mojo stayed on the table, where our three cats had all of their rabies shots and dental examinations. His breath limped along at an irregular pace, coming out of the sides of his mouths in fits. And we waited and waited for Dr. Pinson, the vet he’s seen since he was a 4-week-old stray

Mojo getting laser therapy for his arthritis. 

“He needs help,” Matt kept saying in a voice rising in despair, cracking into a cry. 

 

Dr. Pinson finally came in. He was worried about Mojo’s breathing and said the dog’s belly was puffy. He said maybe Mojo had a mass on his spleen that had ruptured, and he took Mojo back from an X-ray. 

 

I had nothing but faith and optimism. The vet would fix our dog. The worst-case scenario was a surgery that might cost us several thousand dollars.   

 

And we waited, and waited, and waited. 

Family picture. 

What happened 

Mojo’s blood pressure was very low. His veins were bad. They couldn’t find a vein to do blood work.

 

And then, while on the table, Mojo went into cardiac arrest. They performed CPR on him. The vet said they were trying to stabilize him but need a few more minutes. 

 

At that point, I realized Mojo is dying. He’s not coming home. Between 4:30 a.m. and 10 a.m., he died. 

 

We went to say goodbye. In a back room, Mojo is lying on a sterile silver steel table, under a red Georgia blanket. He’s got an IV in one of his front paws. He’s got a dog ventilator breathing for him.

 

I looked at my fluffy, shaggy dog. He has so much fur—tan and black fur everywhere, like a haybale rained down on the table. I looked at his eyes. They’re dead and blank. There’s no Mojo there anymore. That light, that happiness is gone.

Mojo was a happy dog.

 

It’s the worst sight I’ve ever seen. 

 

Blank dog eyes. All black. No spark. 

 

“I love you so much, I love you, I love you, I love you,” that’s what I wanted him to know. 

But he wasn’t there to hear. 

 

And I knew it was a mistake to even try to say goodbye. I put my hand on his shoulder and said the words anyway. In case he could hear, but I know he can’t. I repeat myself and repeat myself before I leave the room.

Mojo tackling me with kisses. 

The aftermath

 

I cry so hard, a random lady in green flannel walks up and hugs me. “I heard there was a pet emergency,” she said. And I knew my dog is the reason that her pet’s appointment—maybe an annual checkup or flu vaccination—was late.

 

I’m a notoriously no-touch person. I am not a hugger. But I don’t shy away. “He died.” I crumble as the words fall out the sides of my down swept mouth. 

 

$538. That how much it costs for a dog you’ve raised since he was 4 pounds to die.

 

We paid. We sobbed in the empty car. And that was that.

 

We went home without a dog.