I once had a dearly beloved Dachshund named Conan. He was a sweet dog, and I adored him, and he died almost 2 years ago now. He came to me from rescue, when his former owner, P, had to move into a care center. I got a phone call a few weeks ago that she had died late that Sunday night.
P adored Conan more than I did, which is saying a lot. He was originally bought at a pet store as a Christmas present for her son, C, from his then fiancee. C and Conan moved out after the wedding, but Conan used to come visit for the weekend, and P would cry inconsolably when it was time for him to go home. After a while, it was clear that Conan and C’s stepson were not meant to be together, and Conan was able to live with P permanently.
P and Conan exhibited an uncanny connection. Their lives were turned upside down when P was diagnosed with non-cancerous brain tumors. She had to have a delicate operation, and then extensive physical therapy. That was the week that Conan (at approximately twice his ideal weight) jumped off of her bed and broke his back, ending up with his back legs paralyzed amd needing a delicate operation and then extensive physical therapy. C, faced with his mother’s severe crisis, decided that this was one more thing than he could handle. He took Conan in to the vet and asked them to put him to sleep.
The vet flatly refused. He told C that if there was one thing guaranteed to kill P, it was coming out of surgery to find that Conan had died, or worse, been killed. The office rallied around. Conan lived there during the day, and went home with the groomer nights and weekends. The groomer, the vet, and various vet techs did physical therapy, made him swim in the tub, and gradually he regained the use of his legs. (Sadly, he never did regain bladder control.)
The vet was right about P. She sailed through her own rehab, concerned only with Conan. She sold her house and bought another one, without stairs. She said it was for Conan, and no one commented on her own diminished capacity. They continued to live together quite happily, until the tumors came back. This time, P had a stroke in the recovery room. After some confusion, it became clear that she was never going to be able to live at home again, and she was persuaded, with many tears, to sign Conan over to rescue.
At least one family, probably two, had tried to take him before he came to me. (That lack of bladder control continued to haunt him.) I took him to visit P, who was bedridden and unable to even sit up. They cuddled together until we had to go, and I made a commitment to keep bringing him to see her.
She was eventually moved to a rehabilitation center. When we would go, Conan would come off the elevator, and make his way down the hall. All the residents (who had been told he was coming) were waiting at their doors with treats, which he eagerly accepted. Then he would round the corner and see P in her wheelchair, waiting at the end by the nurses’ station. He would freeze, staring, and then I would drop the leash and he would break into a run. He would gallop down the hall, gathering speed to leap into her lap. He would jump up and down joyously, licking her face, and she would cry, I would cry, the nurses would cry. Then he would settle himself against her and fall asleep, always surprised and a little grumpy when I woke him up to take him home.
Later, P was once again diagnosed with brain tumors. That same week, Conan was diagnosed with inoperable brain tumors. The call to P was the most difficult one I have ever had to make. We didn’t know how long he would live, and I promised to bring him to see her again. She was scheduled for surgery, and when I spoke to the hospital, they told me in no uncertain terms that dogs were not allowed, she could see him after the operation. Days went by. P called me daily, crying, to see if he was still alive. Conan got worse daily. He went blind. His hair turned blond and silky. He sat very still, more and more unaware of the world. And P still had not had surgery.
I mentioned this during one of our many visits to my vet, and the vet tech was furious at me. She told me to call the duty nurse on P’s floor and demand to be allowed to bring him in. I called the nurse, and before I could even start, she started yelling at me. P was so upset that they weren’t able to operate. What was I waiting for? I was to bring Conan at thus and such a time to thus and such a door, wrap him in a blanket and not talk to anyone. Of course I did. The duty nurse was waiting at the door (marked "Do Not Enter’) and took me to P’s room the back way.
It was heart rending. P was sobbing so hard she couldn’t breathe. Conan came out of himself and responded to her voice. I had to leave. Finally, the nurse gave P a mild sedative and I took Conan away. After he died, I gave P his collar and his St. Christopher medal. It was blessed by the Pope, and she had brought it to him from Rome. I thought she should have it.
Afterwards, I started bringing Sadie to visit. It wasn’t the same, but it was a “Doxie fix.” And it kept us in touch. As she gradually went through boxes from storage, she would give me photos of Conan that she found, and talk about him. (Prior to his accident, he looked like a watermelon with paws. I cringe to look at those pictures.)
Despite her physical problems, P was relatively robust, and only in her early 60s. It certainly never occurred to any of us that she would die soon. Apparently some minor ailment turned into pneumonia, which wasn’t diagnosed until it was critical. C flew in from Baltimore to make decisions. She was getting better until Saturday night, when she started failing. Apparently she talked about Conan toward the end.
I wasn’t able to go to the funeral, but I did go to the visitation. No one knew me by name, of course, but they all knew me as “Conan’s Mom.” (Except C. He immediately greeted me by name, and was gracious and charming, especially given the circumstances.) Over and over, family members and friends admitted that P had asked them to take Conan, and that they had refused. They seemed to think I was either a saint or a crazy person. One in-law, who had married into the family after Conan’s death, asked me how big he had been. I indicated the length of my forearm, and he was surprised. Given all the family stories about him, he had vaguely thought he was at least waist high.
What had tipped him off to his error was the picture board. As has become traditional, this was covered with snapshots of P at various points in her life. At least half of them had Conan in them. My favorite showed P, who was a lively and vibrant person, with a huge smile on her face. Conan was sitting on her lap, wearing a Santa Claus hat and staring at the camera with a look of “Get this damn thing off my head!” And P was sitting on the lap of Santa Claus, who had a look of “I’m being paid for this.”
It amazes me at how sad I am over the death of someone who was certainly not a close friend. Part of it, I think, was that we were two of the few people who adored Conan. (His charms were not obvious to the casual observer.) Now there is one less person who remembers him, who cared about him, one less impression that he made in the world.
Theologically, I don’t accept the “Rainbow Bridge.” P was a devout Christian. She is in the presence of God, a greater and more lasting joy than even a reunion with Conan could bring her. But I also cannot believe that God would create such a special and unique little guy as Conan, and then have this be all there is. I’m pinning my hopes on the Resurrection. At that time, I believe, all creatures will be raised from the dead, including Conan, svelte and continent. I look forward to seeing him, but I have a feeling he’ll be hanging out with P.
GfH, dog fanatic and owned by a low-riding Cardigan Welsh corgi