The room at the emergency veterinary clinic was almost perfectly square, not long enough to be classified as a rectangle but just slightly bigger then a perfect cube. Its cement walls were decorated with a diverse selection of materials: pictures of other animals that had circulated through the hospital, a cabinet which held postcard and plastic constructions of dog and cat jaw structures for demonstrative purposes, one of those light boxes that doctors put x-ray images on, two chairs in which I and my mother occupied, and a table that occupied most of the room on which small animals would be placed to be inspected by the veterinarians.

It had been nearing midnight and we had been sitting there for nearly two hours and I had begun thinking that they had forgotten about us. The momentary games on my phone had finally become arid as I was forced to sit there observing the rooms miniscule objects for the 100th time and listening for potential footsteps to come through the rooms archway.Occasionally, I heard voices from the front desk which was a few rooms down and around the corner. The conversations — to which I could not hear — varied: sometimes it sounded upbeat, sometimes there was laughter, sometimes it sounded serious, and sometimes it was silent for long periods of time often broken by the sound of the buildings buzzer to let people in late at night.

Sometimes, and this bothered me the most,  the long periods of silence would be broken uncomfortably by the sound of the crying of different dogs in the hospitals infirmity. The stone walls that held the building’s structure could not contain the anguish or pain of the  different struggling canines [it was clearly a dogs howl]. I listened to these sounds, slightly tapping my foot on the ground out of nervous energy, knowing that it was not my tormented Dean who was simply far to sick and exhausted to have embarked on such endeavors; yet, I still worried and felt the need of maternal confirmation that it was not our dog, Dean.

“That…isn’t Dean, right? is that what he would sound like?” I asked my mother.

“No, it does not sound like him. And I don’t think he has enough energy to be barking” she answers.

I would ask at least two more times. I began feeling guilty for the other owners who would have to endure hearing their own pets, friends, pain.

It’s bothersome, because you can hear the pain but you can not do anything.

We had sat there, closing on the start of the third year.  Soon a technician(nurse) popped her head into our room and told us that the main veterinarian was waiting for the results of Dean’s blood work and would soon talk to us. She also moved us across the hall into the “comfy” room with the sofa and one-pice chair which had essentially the same set-up as the other room, but comfier.

Just two and a half hours prior, we had been in the “non-comfy” room waiting for the main veterinarian to come and do initial inspections of Dean who had been lying on the cold-tile floors for at least an hour.  His only movements had been to roll fully onto his side, or onto his stomach —  he did not have enough energy to stand-up on his own, nor walk. Hours prior to that, right before we took him to the veterinary, we had taken him outside to go to the washroom and he had completely given out in the high-snow and would not move.

Throughout the day, he had been getting worse and he had been moving less and laying down on his “mattress” often. That morning, my mother had scheduled him for a blood-test appointment the next morning and we thought that he would make it.

The thing is: Dean had been sick ever since late June. He got bitten by a tick and became very ill with anemia. However, with the help of medicine, he had improved greatly over the last six months and had mostly regained his jolly-jumping form. Overall, he had been a happy dog, an honest dog who like other canines enjoyed the simple pleasures of life: human food (cheese was his favourite) and companionship.  In many ways he had an ego but it was not an ego in the traditional sense, rather, just a need to feel loved and cared for by us. He would  come to us, tail wagging,  wanting to be stroked(near the tail was his favourite) and to be acknowledged.

In the two weeks prior, there had been a somewhat “subdued” change in Dean’s behaviour that perhaps, should have been warning signs to us. He was eating less or nothing, and he was taking longer to do his business.  But Dean, ever since we had brought him from Russia, had always had issues with eating his food but had remained fairly healthy [I liked to think he was concerned about his weight and was taking intermittent diets].

Even a day and a half prior to the incident, neither of us could have imagined the turn of fate — he had appeared to be his normal loving self. When we went to the emergency clinic, I simply thought that he was perhaps had a bad cold from the previous two-freezing-days and was physically weak because he had not eating much.

I was sure he just needed some medicine to feel better.

After waiting a couple of hours with Dean in which he was pretty much in a vegetative state [and the staff had seen this clearly yet were tepid in response; but this story is not a rant against the staff so I will say no more], the doctor told us that he needed blood work. After being unable to standup, the technicians moved Dean with a “cart”-like fabric into the infirmary.

And so we waited.

And waited.

Until about 12:15-12:30 a.m. when the doctor finally showed up again. She had been fairly young but she seemed to know what she was doing.

“So we checked Dean’s blood which was good…” she said [I am paraphrasing here], “…but we found some other complications. Deans is experiencing renal failure and his Kidneys’s have shut down.”

She continued to tell us that he had no urine and so they could not specify if this was a bacterial infection or what; so he would have to be admitted, pumped with water so that he could urinate and they could do tests.

We, obviously, complied. The nervous tic in tapping my leg had re-emerged, more pressingly.

Before leaving, we were granted a last visit for the night to our sick comrade. When we entered the infirmary — a wide-room full of other indisposed pets of owners who like me sat anxiously waiting to see their best friends make it out alright — Dean had been to my immediate left lying on the floor as he had two hours ago. An IV injection was attached to his right rear-paw and a heart rate monitor on his front right paw.  His body deeply inhaled and exhaled whichever breath he could manage, excruciating energy towards something that should be so simple.

My mother said goodbye to him first, whispering something and kissing him gently on the side of the head that was open.

Since Dean had been at the hospital often in the previous few months, the sight was common. But this was different. He looked weary, tired, and exhausted from the fight with an most-unexpected illness(but would continue fighting to his fullest capabilities). It had been extremely difficult to keep my composure.

I kneeled down, stroked his head that he so enjoyed and had a look at his beautiful august eyes, took his paw and felt the rough textures of the pads that had pounded different cement, carpet, tile grounds during countless walks that we both had experienced and enjoyed.

Knowing that this might, would likely, be the last time I saw him — I placed my hand underneath his leathery nose and felt the desperate pushes of air escape.  I looked at his eyes once more and we left.

As my mother dealt with other administrative duties, I waited outside away from the view from inside the buildings. I found it increasingly difficult to hold it in, as my eyes became moist, and I felt a sudden rush of significant loss, guilt and hurt.

When we returned home around 1:30 am, we both had instantly gone to sleep but I could not close my eyes.  Tears streamed down my face as I waited for the inevitable call of doom, and I began reflecting on my time with Dean.

About an hour and a half later, the call came in the dark night and still being awake, I arose and went to my door. My mother had answered the phone, and after a few moments came out and told us(me and my brother) the tragic news and instantly broke down. I had as well, but perhaps it was not as bad as I had thought it would be since I had somewhat been preparing it.

We would see him one-last time in the morning, and so I went back to my room and further digested the news and reflected on the dog.

This all had come about so instantly or “out of the blue”. Just two days ago, he had been his happy self running around, wagging his tail, and looking to eat cheese.

And he was gone.

It is amazing how quickly things can just go away. I had previously lost my father unexpectedly about a year and half ago, and another dog right before we had gotten Dean. No tragedy or death is equivocal to one another; they all carry different meanings to us and we react differently to them. But there is a tendency, post-tragedy, to grow a sort of wisdom that we cannot take  valued things for granted. This is true and I thought I had it after my father’s death but how do you value or appreciate something while you have it and then it is so suddenly taken from you? Despite the amount of tragedies we experience, I think that this wisdom of appreciation tends to decay as years go by and we return to our start position, comfortable again and perhaps unintentionally, taking things for granted — once again.

Perhaps, this is why I felt guilty: I let that appreciation be compromised once again and had let down my dog.

Yes, he was just a dog. But he was a true friend, like all your dogs or pets are to you, and he relied on me greatly as I did for him. He was always there, loyal, and willing to listen to anyones (except for the cable-guys) problems. All he asked for was to be cared for, stroked and some cheese. But even more, he taught me different things about life such as   responsibility, loyalty, and humility..  I have met and know many people, but I do not how many are true friends or care about me as Dean did. This feeling is hard to articulate specifically, and so I can only  provide sentences that encircle it, no matter how silly the affection may sound. He was a magnificant dog.

After learning of his death; I sat there in my room remembering the first time I saw Dean — a pup at the time — in Russia at his breeders home, behind a glass door jostling with his cousin for our attention.

Goodbye,. My Friend.

“…love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.” — Kabil Gibran

***Dean passed away just more then a week ago.  This narrative is meant as a sort of tribute to him.***