Chapter 25 (Animals I’ve Known and Loved, cont.)

Tragedy

My first big tragedy in life after my father dying was when Kiyoodle so needlessly died. I had always joked when he acted too rambunctious that I couldn’t wait until he was two years old, for it was said that it took two years for this type of dog to mature. On Ki’s second birthday, he went swimming after a stick on one of his neighborhood treks with one of the boys on the block. There was junk thrown into the pond where this took place, and he cut his foot on something sharp. The boy brought him home and explained what had happened. He could walk on his foot, but it would keep bleeding, and bled quite a bit at first, but I bandaged it and it seemed to be okay until Kiyoodle would walk on it again. So I tried to keep him quiet. But when he’d lie down he felt he just had to chew off the bandage. The foot obviously needed a stitch. Although it was a Sunday, I managed to find a vet. Kiyoodle was always hyper-sensitive. His personality was so accepting of everyone that you wouldn’t think of Ki’ as a nervous dog. (Even a couple that visited from the city who didn’t like dogs, grew to love Kiyoodle, because Ki’ loved them so much, and conveyed that affection without being overbearing.)

Even with my help, the vet couldn’t hold Ki’ still to stitch up his paw, so he gave him an oral tranquilizer. This made Kiyoodle act drunk, but didn’t help him stand still for the stitching up of his paw. Finally the vet said he had to be anesthetized. This was done with sodium pentothal. As soon as Ki’ was out, I noted out loud how quiet it made him--I couldn’t even see him breathing. The vet turned white and dashed out to get a shot of some stimulant to reverse the drug, and tried to revive Ki’. When I understood what was happening, I couldn’t believe it. As soon as I came out of my shock, I began pounding on Ki’s chest to get his heart going. He just lay there… my remarkable, wonderful dog-- my “first child”--just lay there. I can’t remember what I said… Probably, “Do something! He can’t be dead! All he had was a cut on his foot! He just can’t die--he can’t!!!”

I don’t remember for sure the words, but when I think back I can still hear their echoes, as if there was a huge chasm inside me and their sounds were reverberating off its walls.

When I had calmed down somewhat, the vet called my husband for me and I told him over the phone. Being still so upset, the vet asked me if there was anyone else I needed to call. I called my mom. Poor Mom. When she heard my sobbing voice telling her what happened, she told me later, she was first afraid something terrible had happened to one of our children, as Joanna was born and just an infant then.

That evening was one of the only times in our (to be 18 years of) marriage that I saw my husband cry. And it hurts me to talk about it even now, and this happened in 1965. I’m like my Mom who used to cry about her lost dogs when she’d reminisce about her childhood and all the dogs she'd known and loved.