Mickey's Story

            

 "Dogs are not our whole life, but they make our lives whole"--Roger Caras

Mickey's Story

            He was not one of "my" dogs.  It was only my second night to work at the kennel, one of my three summer jobs, and I had never seen him before.  I had completed my feeding duties, and as the dogs settled down for their after-dinner rest, I noticed I seemed to be alone -at least there were no humans around.  I went looking and found the other three staff kneeling beside a crate on the floor, wrapping a little dog in towels, murmuring to him.  I saw little furry grey and white head, body, paws.  The kennel owner called the emergency veterinary clinic.  This little dog, it seems, had been fine yesterday; this morning he began to have runny stools; now he was passing blood.

            Someone handed Mickey, this little mop dog, to me.  I was to hold him while my twenty-year-old coworker drove us to the clinic.  I cradled the dog like a baby, scooted into the passenger seat of a sports car, and found I could not fasten my seat belt.  It didn't matter.  The college-age driver pushed the speed limit through back roads in town.  As he drove, he told me about this little dog.

            Mickey was twelve years old.  He had NEVER been boarded before, and this was his fourth day at the kennel.  His human mom's mother had died suddenly the week before, and they had had to go to Florida immediately.  They could not take Mickey- who, remember, had never been boarded.  Even at very good kennels -and this place is a very good kennel- boarding is stressful to a dog.  Even for most dogs who are used to being boarded, boarding is stressful.  I cannot imagine what this little dog must have felt like when he found himself with 40 other dogs, in a crate much of the day, away from his people.

            Oh, yes.  Both of his owners are deaf.

            I cradled this little dog, a schitz-tsu I found out.  A little mop dog.  I adjusted the towel and held my hand to protect his eyes from the wind blowing in the open driver's window.  As we flew through town I whispered sillies to him.  "It's okay, Mickey."  "You're a GOOD dog, Mickey."  "Hang on, Mickey.  The doctor will make you all better."  "It's okay, Mickey...."  I snuggled him.  I kissed his little face.  I watched the light fade from his eyes. 

            I'm sure that little face had worn delight before.  I could imagine his tongue hanging out, mischief shining in his eyes.  But now I literally saw him fading.  And his face now wore resignation.

            We finally arrived at the clinic.  One last time, I kissed him.  "You're a GOOD boy, Mickey," and they whisked him away.  My coworker filled out the paper work with the owners' information. 

            The swinging door through which they had taken Mickey minutes before slammed open, and a harassed-looking vet flew into the room.  "Who is responsible for payment for the schitz-su?" he blurted.  "This could get quite expensive."

            I wanted to shout, "Go help that dog!!  He could die while you stand out here sniveling about money!"  But I didn't.  I said nothing while the desk staff called our kennel to make sure services were covered.  The kennel owner's terse reply was, "That's why you have all the owner's information.  And I'll cover it if they don't."

            Payment assured, the vet returned to Mickey, precious minutes wasted.  Would those minutes have made a difference?  No.  Could the vet have acted differently?  I wish so.

            We returned to the kennel.  Other dogs needed seeing to.  They all had to be walked before bed.  Floors had to be washed, water bowls filled.

            Only a few minutes after we arrived at the kennel, the clinic called.  Mickey had died.  The vet had contacted Mickey's owners in Florida.  Twelve years old is not a young dog.  Probably, the vet explained, the stress of being boarded had been too much.

            "I hope he didn't tell the owners that!" I protested.

            "I think he did," I was told.

            Great.

            I did not cry until I called home to check on my own dogs.  As I told my husband what had happened, the tears started.

            I am crying now, with the retelling.

            He was not one of "my" dogs.  He was not a dog I would probably have ever owned.  But he affected me deeply.

            I am glad I whispered sillies to him.  Glad I kissed him before they took him back.  But I have no idea if any of that helped him at all.  It probably comforts me more now than it did him then.  I'm sure he just wanted his people.  It haunts me that he died alone.  Oh, there were people there.  Technicians and the vet.  But he must have felt so alone, so confused.  His heart broke for them, and it killed him.

            I carry in my mind a clear picture of his little face, eyes looking at nothing, as I cradled him, tried to reach him with my voice.  I doubt I will ever lose that mental photo.  A friend of mine said, "You have to just forget that and put it out of your mind.  Then it will be easier for you." 

            But I think my friend is wrong.  Oh, if I could forget that diminutive face, she's probably right.  It would probably be easier for me.  But to try to forget him like that would, it seems to me, demean his life- and death. 

            And, so, I want to share him with you.  A little mop dog who loved his people so much that, in the end, he could not live without them.  They will always live with the knowledge that had he been with them, he would probably not have died then.  Maybe soon, maybe not.  They will also live with the knowledge of this little dog's great love for them.

            He was not one of "my" dogs.  Not a border collie.  Not a golden retriever.  Not a lab.  But he was someone's dog.  And I want to honor his life by not forgetting his brief time in mine.

            He was a GOOD dog.