The vet said his chances weren’t good. The seizure had gone on for more than an hour. She administered valium and then we waited. He threw up something nasty and black. Poison, she guessed. It was late Saturday afternoon and the office was closing. Not a good time to get sick.
We carried him back to the truck in a stretcher. She handed me another dose, adding that his chances were even lower if he fell back into that stiffened, catatonic state that was so unnerving. Good luck, she said, locking the door behind her.
I drove back to the farm, thinking of the hundreds upon hundreds of visitors and friends who fell under Boonie’s spell. Here was our farm mascot, our kid magnet, our love machine, our loyal pet who could never get enough petting.
What was the farm without him?
I couldn’t begin to imagine.
I lay him on the warm grass in the sun beside the barn. And I did what everyone else did. I petted him. And petted him. He stood up, staggered like a drunk, fell down. The fall triggered another seizure. I saw it in his eyes first, that rigid, far-away stare. Then the legs shook, stiffened.
Do I give him the final dose now? And exactly how does one person alone administered a syringe from the rear end? And what was next if it didn’t work? Nothing. And no one to call. No one to help say goodbye to 10 years of pure dogginess.
So I did what everyone else did and I petted him, talked to him, maybe even prayed. Something worked. The demon beneath the fur let go.
I saw a tail wag. Never was a wag so wonderful.
The next day our resurrected Boonie was once again wooing newcomers to the farm. Getting his pets. Getting his love. And giving it back — always giving it back.