It has taken me about 3 weeks to finally sit down and write an account of the final weeks leading up to that last car ride to the vet and a final farewell to my best friend, Buford. I can only hope and pray that those with more faith than I are correct--it is tough for me to completely believe--that we will one day be reunited at the Rainbow Bridge, Heaven or whatever may be next for all. He took with him a part of my heart that will always be empty.
It started on November 22, 2009....well, maybe it started a few weeks before but there was no consistency to it, just a random episode here and there that I chalked up to a "bad day" that was to be expected. But in hindsight those few "bad days" were warning signs of what was to come. On November 22, 2009 Buford a "bad day," a REALLY bad day. He exhibited bloat symptoms multiple times that day, but 1) he could not go into a full GDV due to his stomach tacking, and 2) each episode resolved with a massive belch within 20 minutes of starting. But still, something was wrong because it happened three separate times that day.
The next day he was fine. Then Tuesday same thing--a longer episode. He calmed down eventually and slept hard. My radar was ringing loudly--something was wrong. He had just been boarded, but he had been boarded a lot this fall for a day or two with no ill effects. He had a touch of constipation but that started to clear so since things were moving, I figured he was alright. He was eating, peeing, pooping, and seemed happy.....except for these random bloat episodes.
Wednesday he was fine. Thursday, same routine; Friday ok; Saturday ok; Sunday--minor episode; Monday: BIG episode---I called the emergency vet where his internist worked. How convenient: the internist was on vacation on this December 14th--it was November 30th. They urged me to bring him and treat him as an emergency case. So I raced. He was in abdominal pain so everyone thought "obstruction." X-Rays revealed nothing. Nothing except food in his stomach, gas in every inch of his intestines and stool ready to exit. We were sent home with every antacid on the market plus Carafate. Instructions--see the internist when he returns.
He responded well to everything until Thursday. 2 episodes a couple hours apart so I raced him over to his regular vet. Everyone was scratching their heads--it made no sense. There was nothing wrong, but clearly there was something VERY wrong. We decided to max him out on the Carafate--his acid reflux was off the charts and in trying to quench the burn he was drinking excessive amounts of water and gulping air, essentially causing self-inflicted bloat. Home we went with a bunch more Carafate tablets.
He again responded well--the Carafate was working.....until December 8th. He was fine at 4:30 PM. I went over to my mother's home for a quick dinner with her and was home at 5:45 PM. While gone he had an episode that I walked in on in the middle--a full blown bloat episode and for the first time went as far as vomiting. He was in pain--from the gas, from the acid and finally from the vomiting. Something must have happened when he vomited as his eyes were completely bloodshot. Not basset hound red, but total red. There were no whites left to his eyes--they were completely blood filled.
....and he finally burped and wagged his tail while looking at me. And my heart broke as I picked up the phone to make the one call we pray we never have to make but know we will one day. I cried to my vet, but I knew in my heart it was his time. He sat with me there on the floor getting ear scratches and head rubs while I talked about options--knowing there was only one.
I hung up the phone, picked up his leash, looked him in the eye and said one last time, "Let's go for a ride baby." And he raced to the car as he always did--as if nothing was wrong. And when I looked at him as we drove I saw two bloody eyes that held so much love I hated myself because I knew this was his last ride, something he loved, but he didn't know.
We got to the hospital and I sat in an exam room with my boy, rubbing his head, scratching his ears and keeping him calm while I talked through everything one last time with the doctor. For him to not get relief from all the meds probably meant that his scarred esophagus and/or stomach lining had started to ulcerate. The only choice would have been to put him on massive doses of predisone to treat the pain.
I looked at him and then at the vet and said, "For how long and for whom, him or me?" The answer was clear without anything being said--it would have been for me, and merely delaying the inevitable and quite possibly causing him more distress. I vowed I would never let him be in pain if I could at all avoid it, and I kept that promise at 8 PM on December 8, 2009.
My Buford baby did not go gentle into that good night. The first attempt: his vein collapsed. The 2nd attempt he almost bit the vet. Finally (and yes, I stayed and I was more of a wreck than can be described in words), the third vein held and my boy drifted quickly and quietly in my arms. In seconds he was gone.....and I wanted to go with him.
I stayed alone with him for a while, talking to him, kissing his head and face and trying to pull myself together so that I could drive home. How I got home I'll never know but I did. And I grabbed Della and screamed into her fur. It took Della a full week before she realized her brother wasn't coming home. She hit full doggy depression at that point and would sleep on the couch and wake frequently, snapping her head toward his empty chair and then sighing heavily while she put her head back down and went back to sleep. It's been 3 weeks and she still will not go near his chair.
I miss my boy horribly. I'm learning more and more about Della every day and for that I'm very happy--she is a delightful dog who lived in the shadow of her brother Buford and his ailments for the first 5 years of her life. She is not Buford, and I do not want her to be. But I cannot help wishing he was still here.
I buried Buford on Friday, December 11th on the farm. One of the vet tech's mother owns a farm just over the PA line and her mother offered me anywhere that I wanted to lay my boy to rest. I picked a spot on a terraced area overlooking the lake--it is beautiful there.
Something odd happened a week after he left for the bridge. Because of his struggles with Cushing's Disease, Buford had to go out almost every 2 hours or so--I became accustomed to sleep deprivation many months earlier as this had been going on for close to 2 years. Della was sound asleep next to me in bed--deep sleep in fact, but while she slept, something woke me up. It was a little after 3 AM, a usual "gotta go out" time for Buford. I was awake, very awake. So I picked up my book and started to read. After about 15 minutes or so I heard something that normally would have frightened me--a scratch against wood. I put the book down and listened thinking it was a branch and then I heard it again and it was not a branch--it was a scratch of a nail against the front door. I looked at Della who was still sleeping. And then I saw the cat also sleeping on the foot of the bed. I looked toward the bedroom door and out into the hallway when I heard something else: a woof. And I knew Buford was downstairs in the foyer as he often was, calling up to me not out of need to go out, but rather as a "HI Mom. I'm ok!"
I wasn't frightened, I was calm. My heart wasn't even beating fast. As crazy as it sounds, I'm convinced it was him. I know the sounds of this house better than I know my own inner thoughts and I have never heard anything that sounds like a basset hound woof except when it came from one of the pups. I have not heard it again since that night, although I find myself waking regularly between 3-3:25 AM almost every night.
He was with me from the age of 7 months until his last breath when he was 10 years, 11 months and 3 days old. And I wouldn't trade a single moment I shared with the dog for anything in the world--he was my heart dog and I will always love him.
Rest easy Buford. Until we meet again my boy.
