Beautiful Lizzie, loving to her last breath

As we sat with her on the floor of the exam room, Lizzie backed her haunches against me, turning to look at me as if to ask if I minded. She carefully positioned her long front limbs square in front of Judy, then put one and then the other over Judy’s legs, sinking slowly back on her hind end and settling gingerly on her painful abdomen. Finally, she leaned her distinctive greyhound neck against Judy’s breast and settled her elegant head into Judy’s arms.

And then, she sighed and closed her eyes halfway.

“It’s time,” whispered Judy, and I crawled quietly past Lizzie to the door and stood up. I looked out, caught the eye of the receptionist and nodded. A man with a golden shushed his two children, and a woman our age with an older Yorkie started to cry. They’d seen us walk in, and they knew what was going on in our exam room. “I’m sorry,” mouthed the women,  quietly so to not worry the children.  The man looked away, perhaps thinking about the future, or worrying about what his children understood. I nodded to the woman with the Yorkie and smiled sadly, pulled back from the door and closed it just as the veterinarian entered from the other side of the room.

“I’m sorry,” he said as he placed the box of tissues on the floor. “I know,” said Judy as I settled back onto the floor, stroking Lizzie’s lovely flanks.

“She was so beautiful,” said Judy. “So long ago, you should have seen her. A champion at 10 months, groups, a specialty. So beautiful. So beautiful, so …”

And then there was no sound except Lizzie’s breathing, ragged with the pain in her gut. She knew, did Lizzie, and she was glad to go. Two hours ago,  when Judy had let her out,  Lizzie ran, as Lizzie always did, stretching her  long neck and dipping lower and lower as her legs extended and her speed increased. Even at 14 Lizzie would run, as fast as she could, and Judy would smile.

Lizzie made everyone smile. Judy has always had sighthounds, Afghans all except Lizzie. Lizzie alone among Judy’s hounds was friendly to strangers, her long lips lifting into a smile for everyone she met, her long snake of a tail beating hard, her feet dancing in place so quickly.

Everyone loved Lizzie, I thought, and then I realized I’d said it aloud, as Lizzie flipped her ear towards me.

Two hours ago she was running, and then she was standing, trembling, her stomach twisted on itself, dying. Judy called, and we both knew what it was, and what would happen. Lizzie was already in shock when I crossed the street to help Judy lift her into the car.  The rads soon revealed what the veterinarian knew as well as we did, and he gently discouraged any heroics. He didn’t need to:  Judy is a veterinarian’s daughter who has had animals all her life, and this is a road she has been down many times.

“I’m sorry,” said the veterinarian, as he put the needle in the catheter, the tube held in place by a snug piece of purple vetwrap. And then we waited, as Lizzie’s breath continued steadily, then two deep breaths and she was gone.

He stroked her muzzle gently. “Stay as long as you need to,” he said, and then he was gone, too. No words, again, and now, only our own breathing. Lizzie’s lovely head still cradled in Judy’s arms, her eyes still half-closed but empty now.

“So beautiful,” said Judy. “Oh Lizzie. Oh Lizzie. I love you. I love you.”

“She knows,” I said, and  more time passed.

“Gina,” said Judy, “will you take a picture?”

I did. And then we arranged Lizzie on the blanket, so beautiful she was, gave her one last kiss, and left.

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