In which I’m writing not because I have any news but to keep from crying, because that’s how I roll.

I slept until ten, mostly to avoid being conscious, I think. As soon as I woke I started thinking until I was pretty miserable again. Called the vet. “I was calling to check up on how Bindu’s doing, and to see if Dr Alexis had gotten her lab results yet?”

I spent a couple of brief minutes on hold, then the tech came back on. “The doctor says she’s still waiting on the lab work, but you’re welcome to come pick Bindu up?” The end statement was delivered as a question, and I knew the tech didn’t understand why the dog was still there.

I felt a stab of guilt and shame that I’d left her there to avoid having to witness her distress. “I just– It isn’t– But there hasn’t been any– Um, okay.” I said. “I’ll be there in a bit. Thank you. Very much.”

I got up. Poked around in the kitchen, but still couldn’t eat or drink anything. Took a shower. Dressed. Saw G’ma off to her afternoon of lunch and cards. Got in the truck. Drove across town. Walked into the lobby of the vet clinic.

The tech gave me my total and asked if I had questions. I did have questions, yes, thank you. I managed not to cry while delivering them. The tech gave me a sympathetic look and dashed off to get the vet. I took a seat.

Dr Alexis is utterly wonderful. She’s young and present and has that healthy outdoorsy look you want in a vet. She sat with me for awhile, was incredibly sympathetic and communicative, and told me she’d call my cell as soon as she had the tests back. We talked about heart disease and Cushing’s and symptom management and pain and all that; she said that if the results say a particular thing she’s already got a treatment modality chosen. If they say something else, well, we’ll talk about that when she calls. I told her all about the night before last and how difficult it is to have Bindu suffering. Yeah, I cried. I told her I have a gig tonight and that I don’t feel okay leaving a distressed animal home with my 88-year-old grandmother; she said I could kennel Bindu there overnight if that would ease things.

Oh, God. Okay, an option. But what kind of pet owner kennels her dog just to avoid dealing with symptoms?

I brought Bindu home. She’s clearly not comfortable. Constant panting, some coughing. She won’t settle; she seems agitated. I don’t know if it’s the Cushing’s or her heart, but whatever it is, it looks very much like distress to me. I keep expecting her to have another terrifying fainting episode, or a seizure – or to just up and die on me. No one lying comfortably on the couch should be panting like she just ran around the block like that.

~+~+~
My laptop battery died, so I’ve escaped to the basement to plug it in. I left my panting, distressed dog upstairs. In one sense, she’s fine; she’s home, and there’s food and water and plenty of places to lie down… it’s just that I’m abandoning her because I’m a coward.

I can’t deal with this. I can’t even tell you why. Rationally, I know all of this is normal. I know that Bindu’s body is doing what all bodies do; I know that as an animal she isn’t filled with terror or trepidation about her condition and is simply experiencing it; I know that she’s much more Zen about pain or discomfort than humans are.

Yeah, whatever. Fuck that. What I really know is that when I listen to her labored breathing and see her lips curled back and the whites of her eyes – which is how she’s been since they handed me her leash – and know there’s nothing I can do to comfort her, my whole sense of the world fails. My skin hurts, my heart hurts, my mind is a cyclone of bullshit and platitudes and judgments, and all I want to do is GET AWAY from the source of such discomfort.

~+~+~
I love that fucking dog so much.

I’ve had her longer than any job. I’ve had her longer than I’ve ever lived in one place. I’ve had her through multiple relationships; I had her before I got married and I still had her when I got divorced.

She’s sweet, she’s kind, she’s hilarious. She’s cool-looking.

The very first time I ever saw her, I wanted her, and I’d never really had a dog before. When things changed with her people and I got her later, I was so happy!

The night before last, in between spells, she licked my hand. She was trying to groom and comfort me, even though she was the one in distress. Sure, maybe it’s just an instinct; I don’t care: I still want to be more like my dog.

~+~+~
Oh no oh no oh no oh GOD NO

She’s having another episode. I can hear it. She’s making that repetitive shrieking sound upstairs.

When Dr A calls, if there’s no really good way to manage these symptoms, I think I’ll have to have Bindu euthanized. I can’t deal with her suffering like this, and she can barely function any more. She’s refused to go on walks for days, and now she can’t even lie down and rest comfortably, and these hideous episodes. I don’t think I’m cut out for keeping her at home and waiting for nature to take its course. I don’t know how old she is; but I’ve personally had her since 1997 so she’s at least 13. She’s not young. And I don’t have the money to treat expensive issues anyway. No, basing longevity on finances isn’t fun, but one has to be practical and quality of life is obviously a real concern. I gave the vet two hundred bucks today, and I owe them even more.

…The episode is over; I heard her walk across the floor and lie down. It lasted about twenty seconds. Well, the vocalizing lasted about twenty seconds. I have no way of knowing how long the event itself – whatever the fuck it was – lasted.

I hate this so much. I hate even more how I’ve turned any compassion I have for her into being all about myself: I honestly thought I’d be bigger than this, but I’m not. I just want it to stop.

this sucks this sucks this sucks this sucks this sucks this sucks