During
the summer in the Science Building there are a few students working on research
projects and some faculty members working on various things. Overall, it’s pretty
relaxed, and it’s great to be able to slow down and focus on different
activities. On a very rare occasion I even bring our dog, Lexi, as I did on
Wednesday this week.
When
we arrived, Lexi was greeted by Jersey, who is Jess’s helper dog. After the
usual canine preliminaries, we walked elsewhere in the building. Amy, one of my
colleagues, came to my office to ask some questions about academic program
assessment. As we looked at the screen on my laptop, Amy suddenly pointed out
that Lexi had done both number one and number two on the carpet. I immediately
went into embarrassed dog-owner mode, stooped down, and started cleaning it up.
When I wanted Lexi to move a little, I found that she was completely flaccid
and unresponsive. Her face was squished up against the door, and so I swiveled
her toward the hall a little. At some point I saw her doing some shallow
breathing, and then she became completely still. Amy felt a very faint pulse,
but that was it. As I realized that Lexi was leaving us, I also realized that I
that I had only one option left: CPR. I leaned down and started doing a few chest
compressions and, shortly after I gave up, she started breathing again. I was
pretty shaken up by this, and Amy pointed out that Lexi needed to go to the vet
immediately.
She
weighs roughly 62 pounds, and I picked her up and walked rapidly but carefully
out of the building. Derrick went with me to make sure that I could get her
into the truck. Lexi was still fairly flaccid, and I was concerned that I might
hurt her by carrying her, but I had no choice. I placed her into the passenger
seat and pulled out of the parking garage, telling myself to be careful as I
drove. Thankfully the light at the front of campus was green when I got there,
and I pulled onto Wade Hampton Boulevard, heading toward Ambassador Animal Hospital.
The big V8 in the pickup growled as I pushed the accelerator as hard as I
thought I should. I pulled into the parking lot, carried Lexi in, and told the
receptionist, “I think she’s having a medical emergency.”
Nineteen
years earlier, in a different pickup, the big V8 roared as I drove the roughly five
miles from our house to Dad’s house in Taylors. He had called me complaining
about his heart racing, and also told me that he was hot and red. I told him to
call 911 immediately and to then lie down and rest until I arrived. As I did
with Lexi, I went as fast as I thought I could. The EMTs didn’t arrive until
about 15 minutes after I did. Several days later, at the age of 82, Dad had
both a heart valve replacement and a triple bypass (at the same time). As I looked
down into his face on the gurney, I told him that I loved him. My mother had died
of complications due to bypass surgery five years earlier. As they wheeled Dad
down the hall and I stood there alone, I fought back tears, convinced that I
would never see him again. Thankfully, with a great deal of help, he did
recover. He never did drive again, but the Lord gave him nine more years of life.
He died in his bed in our house.
“We’re
going to the second room on the left,” she said. They then opened the door to
the treatment room across the hall, and we placed Lexi in there so that the vet
could attend to her. The door closed, and I sat alone across the hall, still
shaken up by the prospect that we might lose her.
A
few minutes later, a very large, nicely groomed black poodle walked down the
hall, completely unattended. She looked at me, then at the door to the
treatment room, and then back at me. She came over and gave me a greeting (a
brief closer look), and then turned around and disappeared. I wonder what she
was thinking. A little while later the door to the treatment room cracked open,
and I could see Lexi standing there. I felt some sense of relief but was still
concerned.
We
just don’t know when our time will come. When we’re young, we feel like we have
a very long life in front of us, but time seems to go faster when we get older.
With increasing clarity, we recognize the truth:
“Yet
you do not know what your life will be like tomorrow.
You are just a vapor that appears for a
little while and then vanishes away.”
James 4:14 (NASB)
When
we exhale on a cold day, we see the water vapor in our breath condense in the
air. And then it’s gone. So, too, our lives.
A
while later the vet came into the room. The x-rays on the tablet computer very
clearly showed that Lexi had pulmonary edema (fluid collected in her lungs) and
an enlarged and somewhat misshapen heart. Lexi has heart failure (aka
congestive heart failure). We don’t know her exact age because we rescued her.
Based on her very gray face, she’s now an elderly boxer, and she’s probably somewhere
around 10. She’s getting a diuretic (furosemide) to remove fluid from her lungs
– this is the same diuretic that people often take when they have heart
failure. When it arrives, she’ll also be getting a pet-specific drug to help
her heart. Today is Saturday, and this morning her energy level was up. With some
help, we hope that she’ll live for at least a couple more years. Like people,
though, her days are numbered.
