slim
01-13-01, 07:08 PM
Even though Rusty disappeared into his house and had hardly stirred for more than 48 hours; even though he had not eaten for several days, was in pain, and was in fact dying; he seemed to know that something was up and that the last of his strength would be needed to help complete this task. He came out of his house and stood, waiting for us to do what we would do. He took a small sip of water offered before beginning this last, difficult journey. Using a piece of canvas under his body, Mom, Dad and I lifted Rusty into the back of my small Suzuki Sidekick that I had lined with blankets. It was as though he was trying to help us in every way he could. Rusty, barely three years old, was such a good dog. He remained standing for most of the 30-minute drive to our destination, leaning into the back of the seat with his head against the glass for support. We pulled into the back entrance of the animal hospital. They were expecting us. Patches of ice covered the pavement where we parked. It was freezing cold and the sky was clear and a brilliant blue. It was Tuesday, January 9, 2001. Dr. Redwine and Daddy had to be very careful as they carried Rusty into the building. The doctor examined Rusty and said, “he’s in much worse condition than Friday,” three days before. “You’re not doing too well, are you fellow.” Rusty answered with the feeble wagging of his tail.
“Sweet Rusty, I’m so sorry I can’t make it all better.”
Dr. Redwine carried Rusty to a private room and closed the door behind us. Mom and Dad said their goodbyes to Rusty earlier, but I had chosen to be with him to the end of the road. Dr. Redwine explained to me that the injection Rusty would be given is humane and would work very quickly, taking only 10 to 15 seconds once the fluid entered the blood stream. Rusty lay on the table trusting that he was in good hands and that we would do what needed to be done. The doctor had some trouble getting the needle into Rusty’s tired vein, and after several attempts, his assistant brought an electric razor over to the examining table. Dr. Redwine then shaved a little strip of Rusty’s forearm clean of hair so he could see to better place the needle. Rusty never flinched as the needle attempted to find its mark, but he immediately raised his head in response to the whirr of the electric razor. Dr. Redwine quickly eased Rusty’s concern and reassured him that it would be okay. He was compassionate and comforting to Rusty and treated him with respect. Rusty laid his head back down as if with a solemn resolve that this must be done. “Now we can proceed I think. Are you ready?” Dr. Redwine gently asked. I wanted to say no, NO--but I had to say yes. The time had come. The needle found its mark and the pink fluid was slowly pushed into Rusty’s vein. I held on to Rusty and through my tears told him I loved him and I told him what a sweet baby he is--over and over. Seconds later I felt his body go limp. I still held on. Moments later, a gasp of air escaped from Rusty’s mouth. The doctor assured me this was just the body shutting down. It was over. I felt heaviness--a sadness that wouldn’t go away, and it’s still with me now. Dr. Redwine asked if I would like to have Rusty’s collar. I accepted the old worn collar and held it tightly. I later washed the collar, but almost wished I hadn’t. The washing removed his scent and evidence of his existence. As I cleaned out the backend of my Suzuki, it seemed that I was removing all that remained of Rusty. I placed the freshly cleaned collar in a place where I can see it every day, touch it and remember the beautiful golden retriever puppy I’d given to Mom and Dad on their Golden Wedding Anniversary just three years before, almost to the day.
I want to know that Rusty IS somewhere and that he’s okay now. I need to know that I’ll see him again someday. I want to believe in the Rainbow Bridge.
“I’ll see ya later litl’ golden boy—goodbye Rusty.”
A Tribute to Rusty by Linda Lee
“Sweet Rusty, I’m so sorry I can’t make it all better.”
Dr. Redwine carried Rusty to a private room and closed the door behind us. Mom and Dad said their goodbyes to Rusty earlier, but I had chosen to be with him to the end of the road. Dr. Redwine explained to me that the injection Rusty would be given is humane and would work very quickly, taking only 10 to 15 seconds once the fluid entered the blood stream. Rusty lay on the table trusting that he was in good hands and that we would do what needed to be done. The doctor had some trouble getting the needle into Rusty’s tired vein, and after several attempts, his assistant brought an electric razor over to the examining table. Dr. Redwine then shaved a little strip of Rusty’s forearm clean of hair so he could see to better place the needle. Rusty never flinched as the needle attempted to find its mark, but he immediately raised his head in response to the whirr of the electric razor. Dr. Redwine quickly eased Rusty’s concern and reassured him that it would be okay. He was compassionate and comforting to Rusty and treated him with respect. Rusty laid his head back down as if with a solemn resolve that this must be done. “Now we can proceed I think. Are you ready?” Dr. Redwine gently asked. I wanted to say no, NO--but I had to say yes. The time had come. The needle found its mark and the pink fluid was slowly pushed into Rusty’s vein. I held on to Rusty and through my tears told him I loved him and I told him what a sweet baby he is--over and over. Seconds later I felt his body go limp. I still held on. Moments later, a gasp of air escaped from Rusty’s mouth. The doctor assured me this was just the body shutting down. It was over. I felt heaviness--a sadness that wouldn’t go away, and it’s still with me now. Dr. Redwine asked if I would like to have Rusty’s collar. I accepted the old worn collar and held it tightly. I later washed the collar, but almost wished I hadn’t. The washing removed his scent and evidence of his existence. As I cleaned out the backend of my Suzuki, it seemed that I was removing all that remained of Rusty. I placed the freshly cleaned collar in a place where I can see it every day, touch it and remember the beautiful golden retriever puppy I’d given to Mom and Dad on their Golden Wedding Anniversary just three years before, almost to the day.
I want to know that Rusty IS somewhere and that he’s okay now. I need to know that I’ll see him again someday. I want to believe in the Rainbow Bridge.
“I’ll see ya later litl’ golden boy—goodbye Rusty.”
A Tribute to Rusty by Linda Lee