The new puppy, Rocky, I recently adopted from the shelter just passed away.
He was already an unhealthy dog when I got him from the shelter, and I brought him to the vet’s office and it looked like things were going to be alright for him. He was quite skinny, but eating well. The vet said he needed a de-wormer, and told us he might not be very hungry the next day, which was nothing to worry about, and may have some odd stool, which was expected.
The next day he wasn’t eating or drinking, and was somewhat lethargic. I wrote it off as what the vet had explained. His stool was irregular, as expected.
Sunday night he started vomiting, over and over. I left work early on Monday and took him to the vet - they said it looked like he had complications and may have been recovering on the tail end of Parvo, and the de-wormer might have tipped him over the edge. They suggested fluids, and to keep him on his antibiotics.
Tuesday I stayed out of work (I had been somewhat ill myself) and took care of him, administering water with a turkey baster, giving him his meds, taking him to the bathroom. I read all day long about dog illnesses whenever he didn’t need attention. That night he started having bloody stool that had the typical Parvo odor. I called the vet and they said they could put him up overnight, that it would be quite expensive, and that there was a fair chance of him expiring before the night was over.
I didn’t like those odds, or the idea of him dying alone. So, I decided to continue caring for him. He got progressively worse, then seemed to be getting better around noon Wednesday. Suddenly, his gums become quite clammy and his limbs seemed stiff. He began to have trouble breathing and passed away in minutes.
I hadn’t slept in days, caring for the dog, and I’m pretty torn up by the whole thing. I cared for him nonstop in that time, and was holding him in my arms when he passed. I buried him that day, in a sunlit grassy grove at my girlfriend’s family’s home.
It hurt me incredibly - I didn’t realize how much hope I had until it was shattered. I want to keep the good memories of him fresh - how he smelled, his silly bark, the way he played, but the traumatic moments of caring for him keep coming up in my mind.
In the end, I know I did right by him, and tried my best. He would have been put down that day if I hadn’t rescued him, and even if only for a week, he had a life outside of isolation in a shelter, Rocky had a name, people who loved him, a leash, a collar, two dishes, and an army of toys to call his own. An older companion in my dog Slater as well. I couldn’t give him life, but I did give him a family. I know all of this, but still I feel so hurt.
