Phil, My Baby

Despite my constant intention to be more consistent with this blog, (do people even read blogs anymore?) the months soared with not a word written. As the year comes to a wrap, I have neglected not just my blog writing but also my author writing. 

Life got chaotic. A sick dog. An unexpected stay by a family member and her dog. Two dogs-one old and sick. The other-healthy but anxious. A young, fearful, and unpredictable dog can be as stressful as a dog who barks in the night to be cared for. 

Phil’s illness started in March. Coughing and wheezing through the night, with a very congested nose. A vet appointment resulted in an upper respiratory infection. Antibiotics cured the infection but not the overly snotty (sorry, will be writing about snots a lot) nose. That got worse. 

More medication with an antihistamine. Wait for two to three weeks. Nothing. Then stronger meds. Wait more weeks. Still, nothing. My poor baby could barely breathe. Through the night he’d struggle to hock the phlegm free from his nose. I’d be there with tissue to pull the yellow mucous from his nose, stringy and thick like a pulled mozzarella stick (gross but true) from his nostrils. 

This went on for months. I kept tissues all over the house to be ready for the boogers. There were plenty. 

After another vet appointment, we tried steroids. With a concoction of prednisone, an antibiotic, and five Benadryl tablets a day, Phil could finally breathe easy.  After about three months of sleepless nights, Phil and I were finally able to get some sleep.

As is often the case with prednisone, (I know from experience) the drug may ease the intended health issue, but it also causes harsh symptoms of its own. Phil’s back legs grew weaker. Being fifteen, they weren’t strong to begin with. He could no longer climb stairs and needed help getting up. Even with no-slip booties, he has difficulty walking. 

The steroids gave him an insatiable thirst and appetite. He was unable to be calm, constantly panting and pacing. I no longer recognized my dog. While the old Phil would lick me all over the face, the sick Phil turned his head from me. I understood the changes he was going through, (I had the same side effects) but he didn’t.

A month later, I called the vet and told him we needed to wean Phil off those crazy pills. His legs slowly got stronger. He still can’t do stairs and a couple of times when the gate wasn’t up, he tried to go downstairs and fell the entire way down. I hurried to him (cursing myself for forgetting to put the gate back up) and plucked him back to his feet. The old dog shook himself off and slowly walked around the entire basement, taking in what used to be his territory. 

Since he was already down there, I lifted him onto the couch. We cuddled together like we used to all of those years–14 years (he was two when I adopted him). He misses his basement. That is where we spent the most time together. It’s where we slept and spent lazy days/nights on the couch. It’s where he stood/ lay next to me on the floor while I did yoga–giving me kisses at every opportunity. Sometimes, he’d lie so close to me that his seventy-pound body pressed against mine and I couldn’t move to do yoga or any exercise. 

But that’s where he always wanted to be–next to me. 

There’s so much I already miss about him. He was a lazy, calm, loving dog that I used to have to wake up at ten because he’d sleep till noon if I’d let him. 

Now he wakes up at six with a bark. If he needs me at night, he barks. Sometimes he barks throughout the day just as he lying on his blanket, not seeming to need anything. Except, for a little attention. 

It’s a strange feeling, missing your dog while he’s still alive. 

I’m missing the way he used to be. The way we used to be together. I didn’t think time would ever change our relationship. But the dynamics of a relationship never lasts for anyone/thing. Not for siblings. Not for parents. Not for friends. Not for lovers. Not even for dogs and their owners. 

Everything changes. 

I know I just spent my last Thanksgiving with him, and this Christmas will also be Phil’s last. I adopted Phil from Animal Care and Control on December 26,2010. He is a Pitbull mix. Not the type of dog that usually makes its way out of Animal Control with a beating heart. 

Five months ago, I didn’t think he’d be alive come Labor Day. Now I have hope he will be with me to celebrate his 14th Gotcha Day with me.  Last year, we had a huge birthday party for him. I turned a post-Christmas party with my siblings, nieces, and nephews into a huge birthday celebration. 

We had birthday decorations, birthday hats, a birthday cake, and, of course, a birthday song. I’m glad I did that last year. I don’t think my sixteen-year-old doggie will be up for all that commotion this time around the sun. Though, I don’t think he’d mind a birthday cake.  

So, Phil is not the same. He barks a lot. He wakes me up at all times of the night/morning. I am sometimes impatient though I try not to be. One day I will miss that bark. I will hear his bark only in my dreams and will wake up hoping it is real, expecting to see him. Then reality will set in. My dog is no longer here. How will I take that?

I don’t yet know. My dog is still here. Upstairs. Sleeping quietly, for now. I will go to him and kiss the top of his nose. Smell is fur. Hold him in my arms. Tonight, I will hear his bark. And no matter how tired I am, I won’t get frustrated, because I’ll remember a time will come when the bark I hear will no longer be real.