Grace Under Pressure: Goodbye to the Dog Who Saved My Life

 

 

I was traveling in Chicago when Connie called to say that Corky had had a seizure. She’d stumbled in our kitchen and had became disoriented. The message was “not to worry” as a local vet said she was not suffering from something serious. Corky, at 13 was still for all intents in great health, and happy to be at home with Connie who worked at her computer. Corky and Connie had a special bond. I believe it was Corky who led me to Connie in the first place. Corky, my street guardian and matchmaker. My fairy tale dog. 

 

When I came home from the conference Corky looked fine. She even brought me a shoe, one of her happy domestic eccentricities. Always one shoe. Always pleased with herself. 

 

Outside winter was turning to spring. It was that funny season when the snow has gone but the world is not yet green. I’ve always thought of this as the moment when winter’s ghosts are preparing to leave the earth. I believe there’s more to the Ides of March than we customarily admit. As green comes to the branches the dead are rising. 

 

A week later Corky had another seizure, this time in the evening. She was disoriented, walking sideways, her eyes half registering us. We rushed her to a 24 hour veterinary clinic where a kindly young vet examined her and concluded that whatever had happened was minor. Corky looked better, more alert, even wagged her tale. We took her home. 

 

Later that night she had a massive attack. She emptied her bowels and fell to the floor. My beloved was dying. 

 

In the morning we took her to our regular vet but she wasn’t in. An assistant told us to leave her and come back. 

 

We found a breakfast place and drank coffee and began to plunge seriously into worry. Corky was such a remarkable girl, so loyal, so deeply loving, it was next to impossible to imagine life without her. Could she be made better? Oh please! We ate our melancholy breakfasts, Connie and I, while pursuing hope.  

 

When we went back Corky was lying on a blanket with an I.V. attached to her foreleg. she was panting heavily. We were told that it was a brain tumor and there was nothing they could do. It was time to say goodbye. My stepson Ross stood behind me, radiating both love and strength. 

 

“Courage,” said Hemingway, “is grace under pressure.” I have never felt especially courageous. But it occurred to me that Corky had spent her life protecting me. More than once she had taken evasive action that had saved my life. She was always looking out for me, concerned and yes, spiritually affirming. My dog. My special angel. I knew that I had to force back my tears. I lay down on the floor beside her, held her, and sang to her our special walking song. And she died in my arms.