The Longest Night

I had a horrible night last night. We all did.

I was a bit concerned about Rooney as the day was winding down. We were all in bed–the girls licking and stretching and readying for sleep–and I was reading. I was dimly aware, through concentrating on my book, that Rolo was licking and swallowing more than usual in preparation for sleep. I folded my book on my lap and looked at her. She was stretched out on her side, eyes closed, but continuously licking and swallowing. It reminded me of how I feel when I am getting sick. When the need to keep swallowing persists, in an effort to soothe my scratchy throat. But Rolo wasn’t getting a sore throat.

Eventually  we all drifted off to sleep. I was awakened an hour later to Rolo pacing about on the bed, still licking and swallowing. It was as if she were trying, by finding a new location, to find comfort; to escape the relentless reflex of continual swallowing. I must have drifted off to sleep again, for I was awakened a little after midnight, to a horrible honking noise. I turned on the light, and witnessed my puppy standing in the middle of the bed, head bent down, chest heaving, making a horrible noise, as though she couldn’t breathe. Occasionally, she would stop, looking at me, wondering what was happening. When her symptoms stopped, she seemed perfectly normal. She had normal respirations, and there was no difficulty drawing breath, her lungs were clear.

This is when the Vet / Dog Mother conundrum kicks in. The clinician in me-the vet and the scientist–deduced that what was happening was not life threatening. However, the Dog Mother in me was trying to tamp down the rising feeling of panic in my chest and keep a grip on things.

The Dog Mother asked the question: “Should I call my vet?”

The Clinician Vet asked: “Why?”

The Dog Mother: “To bring her in, see what’s wrong with her!”

The Clinician Vet answered “Why? You know as soon as you put Rolo in the car and she gets excited, her symptoms will cease.

The Dog Mother: “Yes, but what if she’s having an allergic reaction to something and is unable to breathe soon?”

The Clinician Vet: ” What would she be reacting to? She’s been with you 24/7 and hasn’t been exposed to anything to be allergic to.

The Dog Mother: “I think I’d feel better taking her to the vet.”

The Clinician Vet: “You ARE a vet!”

The Dog Mother: “It doesn’t  count when it’s MY dog! ”

The Clinician Vet, chuckling:” Oh, and you’re vet is going to love you when you drag her out of bed in the middle of the night to look at your puppy, who will by then be curious and happy at being in her hospital at 1 a.m.”

The Dog Mother, defeated: “You’re right, she’ll think I’m certifiable.”

And the Clinician Vet adds, just to make the Dog Mother feel better: “Trust me, very few emergencies are really emergencies. People panic, they feel out of control. You just want someone else to tell you nothing life-threatening is wrong.”

And she was right.

And so the dialogue went, the clinician/vet/scientist in me convincing the Dog Mother in me that I was overreacting, the Dog Mother in tears for the feeling of helplessness that enveloped and suffocated me. To distract myself, I tried to think about what Rolo’s symptoms suggested. If someone else presented me with this dog, what would I think (if she weren’t my dog)? I concluded that since Rolo was normal up until the moment I let her out for her last potty and that I was not with her during those minutes, something traumatic had happened, something that seemed to have irritated her throat region. But what? What in the middle of winter with snow on the ground could have happened? She was acting like she had a fox tail in her throat, but there were no fox tails in the yard  this time of the year. Could she have been running after a rabbit or cat in the dark, and collided with one of the fence railings? Could Kip have turned on her and bitten her throat? All the while my mind was racing, Rolo was jumping off and on the bed, trying to run away from the symptoms that plagued her and tortured me.

Suddenly, Rolo began a honking and yak-ing round-robin so forcible, I could no longer quell the panic that rose up from my stomach as my adrenal glands shot me through with cortisol. As my heart rate, breathing, and blood pressure climbed, I felt complete, utter helplessness. Fighting back tears, I gathered Rolo in my arms and just stroked her, talking to her. It seemed to help both of us. Rolo became calmer as did I. She settled a little, and by 4:30 a.m., we both fell back asleep. When we woke up at first light, things seemed better, as they always do in the light of day. Rolo was still swallowing and yakking a little bit, but eagerly stretched and crawled on her belly, tail wagging, to kiss me good morning. My puppy was going to be OK.

I still don’t know what happened. As the day wore on, Rolo was quite normal, but she still occasionally arched her neck and snorted or yakked, evidence that whatever caused the Longest Night was real. I’m not sure what about last night upset me more; the fact that I couldn’t figure out what was happening to Rooney, or the fact that I was staring straight into the face of Loss again, so soon after doing it with Kate. To lose Rolo so young was possible and so horrific I couldn’t imagine it. What happened last night made me realize just how fragile life is, how short it can be, that  there are no guarantees any of us will make it until tomorrow– let alone for months or years or decades more. It makes me want to take my dogs and put them in a protective box, shield them from a world that threatens to take them away from me. But I can’t do that. Part of the Agreement I made when I brought these amazing beings into my life, was to let them live–to give them the best, most adventure-packed life I possibly can– even if it means it might kill me should something happen along the way. I’ve got to honor that agreement, and the Clinician/Vet/Scientist in me sees to it that I do. Insures that the Dog Mother in me doesn’t protect my girls at the price of merely existing; of not living life to it’s fullest. We wouldn’t have it any other way.