Parker’s Last Wonderful, Terrible Day

We lost our sweet, sweet Parker Boy on February twenty-first, just three days before his eleventh birthday.  It was sudden and unexpected.  

I’ve struggled with wanting to share all of this.   There is so much suffering in this world, so much pain, terror, violence, illness, and loss on a much greater scale.  It seems foolish to be lamenting the death of “just a dog”, but he was so much more than that to us.  He was one third of our little family of three here in France – a major part of why we’re even here. 

This has turned out to be very long, way too long.  I tried to think of a way to abbreviate it, to state the pertinent facts, just to let people know what happened, but I couldn’t figure out how to do that.  I didn’t hold back on the details and I couldn’t sugarcoat any of it.  Writing it all down has been a release for me, helping me quiet my mind a bit while I continue to move through this process of loss and grief.  

Anyway, I know it’s A LOT, too much, I’m sure.  Probably too graphic, too sad, too many overindulged details.  Just know that going in, in case you really want read all of this.

I had been out of town for several weeks, first at a writing workshop in Guatemala and then to San Diego for a visit with family and friends. I also had plans to travel to Arkansas and North Carolina to visit with more of my family.  Skip stayed home with the pup.

Toward the end of my time in San Diego, Skip called to tell me that our Parker Boy was very sick – weak, shaky, refusing to eat, drinking lots and lots of water. He took him to the vet the next morning.  Our boy was so sick that Skip had to carry him into the vet’s office.  His lab results were terrible. The vet said he was hoping it was a kidney infection as that would be treatable, whereas another serious kidney illness may not be.  The vet gave him an antibiotic injection and sent Skip home with more antibiotics and another medication for kidney support.  He instructed him to bring Parker back if he got any worse.

The next morning, I spoke to Skip again and I could hear Parker coughing in the background.  Skip had said that Parker had a cough for a while and it had gotten worse. The vet had heard it too, but he listened to his lungs and said it wasn’t a problem.  However, when I heard the cough – a raspy, croaky cough – it sounded so terrible, it made me cry.  I was so scared.  I told Skip to take him right back to the vet as soon as they opened and demand a chest X-ray and some other labs.

Back at the vet, they agreed with our requests. The X-ray looked terrible. The vet could not even visualize his heart through the fluid in his lungs.  Poor boy was drowning in his own fluids. I don’t know how this wasn’t detected the day before.  However, Parker was able to get himself in the car and walk into the vet’s office, so maybe the heavy duty dose of antibiotics the day before was helping.  The vet gave him an injectable diuretic and again Skip took the boy home, this time with more diuretics and a medication for congestive heart failure. 

I felt so terrible that Skip was dealing with this all on his own.  Parker was his very best friend and I hated that I was so far away.  He was so scared – we both were.  Skip was so tolerant of my micromanaging – attempting to orchestrate his care and diet from thousands of miles away.  I felt so helpless and guilty being so far away when my boys needed me.

The next morning, Skip said Parker was doing better.  Less coughing, moving slowly, but shakiness gone and he even had a little bone broth for breakfast.  The diuretic was making a huge difference – he could breathe much easier.  We were feeling a little more optimistic.  I knew that congestive heart failure could be manageable – in dogs as it is in humans.  Skip felt he had the situation under control and felt confident that he could manage the care of our pup.  He told me not to worry and to “enjoy the rest of my vacation”.  Really?  The guilt and the fear was already killing me.  The thought to change my flight was already floating around my brain and by the next morning, I knew I had to go home.  

So, I changed my flight and cancelled the Arkansas and North Carolina legs of my trip.  I felt that I was letting my family down, but since many of them are dog lovers who understood how important my boy was to me, I knew they would understand. 

My new flight home would be in a few days.  It would have been too expensive to fly home sooner –  not that I wouldn’t have paid anything to get home earlier if I needed to, but Skip felt that Parker was on the right track to getting well  – doing much, much better – wagging his tail, eating more and taking himself outside to potty.  

Over the next couple of days, Parker continued to improve.  Skip sent photos and videos of Parker climbing up on the couch, digging for toys and bones in his toy basket, licking his bowl clean, and dancing around the kitchen – looking like his normal silly self. 

I got home late after 24 hours of travel.  I was beyond exhausted but so relieved to be home.  Parker came to the airport with Skip. I was so happy to see him! He jumped right out of the car to see me and I think he was happy to see me too, although he stared at me a lot, as he had in the past when I’ve returned from a long trip.  

The next morning, Parker went back to the vet for a follow up appointment. I didn’t go because we didn’t get to bed until 2:00am and I was wiped out.  

The news was good!  Labs much improved – still some abnormals, but the chest X-ray was much better – just a small amount of fluid still visible in the lungs. The plan was to continue the medications and monitor his progress.  He looked so good to me,  I was so happy to be home with my boys – just hanging out at home together while Parker continued to heal and I recovered from my jet lag.

Over the next week, our boy just got better and better. His energy and appetite came back full force – our boy was HUNGRY and he really, really wanted to go for a walk.  We wanted to keep his diet simple until we knew his kidneys were functioning adequately and we wanted to wait until he finished his diuretics and had a cardiac ultrasound before he went on any strenuous walks.  But, he was running up and down the stairs and barking at the cats across the street just like normal.  We had a birthday lunch for a friend a week after I got home and he was SO happy to see some of his favorite people!  He was whining, talking, dancing around and begging for attention and handouts just like his normal silly self.  Our friends marveled at how great he looked.  You’d never know how terribly ill he was just 10 or so days before.

The day after the lunch, we went to Brive – a larger town about 45 minutes away – where the specialty vet is for the cardiac ultrasound.  The people there were lovely – so kind and spoke perfect English which was so helpful to us overprotective pet parents.  We were able to hold our boy still while she did the ultrasound.  She explained everything to us – showing us a strong heart, with good valve function and no visual enlargement. She said his EKG was normal and she didn’t believe that his illness had been cardiac related, but maybe viral or bacterial.  She did see a small residual pocket of fluid remaining – and that did cause her some concern.  There was talk of possibly doing a needle biopsy to determine what the fluid was, if the fluid didn’t resolve.  She called our regular vet to report her findings and from there it would be determined how to proceed with Parker’s treatment.  We left there feeling pretty optimistic.  Parker looked great, perfectly normal. The three of us headed home feeling very happy.

The next morning we woke up to our Boy’s sweet happy face, ready to start the day.  We had decided to put him back on his regular food, after modifying his diet while he was sick and recovering. He LOVED his breakfast.  Then he came back to bed with Mama after breakfast – for what we’d always called “his first morning nap”.  After, he was so silly and spunky – we could tell he felt great,  He was smiley and full of energy.  He dug in his basket for a toy – a soft, yellow stuffed beehive which he flung all around our bedroom a bunch of times.  He had us laughing at his puppy-like antics.  He was in and out of the house, in and out, in and out – opening the door by himself, like he always did.”Ferme la porte!” (“close the door!”), we’d always say.  “If you’re  smart enough to open the door, you’re smart enough to close it!”  Even when it was sometimes annoying, it delighted us every time, no matter how hot or cold it was outside.  We’d watch him curve his paw over the door lever and push it down – and either push or pull a door open….smartypants.

He had a really good brushing – long overdue – and he loved it.  He could stand for hours getting brushed, I finally had to tell him “ok – we’re done!”  The plan was to give him a bath after dinner, because he was a grubby boy after being sick.  I decided to take him for a walk – his first in 2 weeks.  I took him on a mellow walk, just around town.  I kept him on his leash.  I didn’t want to take him into the woods and let him run until I felt confident he was completely recovered from his mystery illness.  We had a nice, meandering walk – about 40 minutes or so while I had a nice chat with my sister on the phone.  He had a spring in his step and would have loved to run if I would have let him.  He had such a good time that he didn’t want to come back into the yard when we got home, but when we did go through the gate, he sprinted up the steps, excited to be home, like he always did.  Then we went inside and had a nice chat with our Haley on speaker.  Parker went to his basket and pulled out a hoof (gross, I know) and brought it over near us in the living room and chewed contentedly while we chatted.  After that was dinner time.  He ate his dinner with gusto! He was so happy to be eating his regular food again! 

After dinner, he went outside like he always did.  A couple of minutes later Skip called me over because the brown tabby cat – one of Parker’s nemeses – was in the yard.   Parker chased him all the way across the yard until he ran out through the bars of the gate.  We were laughing because we couldn’t believe that that cat would have the nerve to come into our yard because Parker always barked at them like crazy – his two arch enemies from across the street – the sleek brown tabby and the fluffy tuxedo.  Later, Skip told me that  Parker looked up at him from the gate – maybe proudly for a job well done – and then ran back to the upper part of the yard and jumped up on the garden wall – like he always does – to survey the neighborhood – his neighborhood. I looked out at him from the kitchen, up on the garden wall, and saw his face, his adorable face, his head tilted, his ears tipped forward, looking almost quizzical.

I turned my back to the yard and went back to what I was doing in the kitchen. A minute later, maybe less, Skip said “hey! what’s wrong with Parker?!”.  I looked out the window and saw him laying in the grass.  We ran out to him, he kicked his back legs a little – I thought maybe in an attempt to get up. Skip was right there in a second and pulled up his lip to looked at his gums, which were so pale – almost white. I laid my head on his chest trying to listen to his heart, but I could only hear him breathing.  Parker closed his eyes and Skip attempted to rouse him, he opened his eyes again, but they looked a little wild and unfocused. He was taking great heaving breaths, somewhat rapidly. I told Skip to go get my phone. He was back in seconds.   I fumbled and somehow found the vet’s phone number.   It must have the emergency line, because he answered simply,  “hello?” and I said – sort of in French “c’est Lisa Manbeck”, then only English after that.  I said ‘it’s Parker, something happened! Can we bring him in right now?”.  I don’t know what, if anything, he understood, but he said yes.

Skip ran to get the car out of the garage and opened the gate.  I sat with my boy, petting him, telling him over and over, “it’s ok, it’s ok, it’s ok”, while he was taking those huge breaths – he wasn’t gasping, just those great heaving breaths.  His eyes were open, but not looking at me.  I think I knew he was dying, but I was so hoping I was wrong.  

Skip ran back to us and carried him to the car while I ran in the house and grabbed my purse and closed the doors.  I got in the back seat with him and put his sweet head on my lap.  Parker was still breathing those big heaving breaths and I was afraid I was obstructing his airway by having his head tilted on my lap so I got on the floor, squeezed behind the driver’s seat and looked in his eyes and telling him over and over to keep breathing for me, it’s ok, it’s ok, it’s ok, keep breathing for me.  I opened his mouth wide to look for an obstruction, to see if he choked on something.  I remember thinking his eyes must be dilated, they were so dark.  I was looking into his beautiful dark brown eyes – his huge and perfectly round eyes that made him look like a deer – wanting him to see me, willing him to live, but I don’t think he was looking back at me.  

The drive was frantic. From the floor, I kept trying to see where we were – how close we were getting to the vet – while begging Parker to hang on, keep breathing for me, keep breathing for me.  We were maybe halfway there when I was realizing his breathing was changing, still big heaving breaths, but now spacing out, his head starting to loll. I was telling Skip – probably yelling – that he should pull over so he could say goodbye.  I was now crying uncontrollably.  Skip said I should start CPR, which I did.  I somehow quickly remembered how to do dog CPR and started compressions, alternating with breaths – by closing my lips over his nose. I was afraid to hold his mouth closed because he was still taking breaths himself.  I only knew human CPR – the compression to breath ratio – and I tried so hard.  I know I was pushing air in his lungs because his lips flapped as the air expelled.  I remember my lips tasting salty after giving him breaths.  We were getting closer to the vet, I told Skip again that he should stop – to say goodbye, I knew he was dying, but I know Skip was hoping there was still a chance to save him – I was too.  It was an impossible decision for Skip. I can only imagine the fear and stress he must have been feeling, driving as fast as he could and keeping us safe, while hearing all that was happening behind is seat.  He was saying over and over, “hang on Parker, hang on Parker!” Parker’s breaths were becoming more spaced out, more irregular. His tongue and his nose were now bluish, I was still doing CPR, I was crying, I was hyperventilating, I thought I was going to throw up.  I could see by the roofs of the buildings that the vet’s office was near, we were almost there. I looked into Parker’s beautiful dark eyes and saw the light dim,  The color lightened and became dull, I saw the the cloudiness of his lenses.  He died just as we were pulling into the driveway.

Skip got out of the car and ran into the vet’s office.  He told me later that he ran all the way back to their operating room because they didn’t understand what he was saying in the reception area.  Two young women ran out with him.  I was struggling to unfold myself from the floor behind the seat and get out of the car.  I still wanted Skip to say goodbye to our boy.  One of the young women, a small person, somehow lifted Parker out of the backseat and went running, while shouting at the people in the doorway – I’m sure saying to open the door and move out of the way.  We all ran back to the operating room where the young woman – I’m guessing a vet tech – laid him on the table.  I felt myself leaning then crouching against a wall, crying so hard, as one of the veterinarians came rushing into the room. She was trying to listen with her stethoscope, while giving some compressions.  I was trying to tell her he had already died.  She told us to be quiet so she could listen.  She was asking questions about medications, illnesses, but I was telling her again I thought he was already gone.  Parker’s regular vet, Dr. Moulin came in, looking so surprised.  His yellow lab – his constant companion, followed him into the room – his sweet face looked up to me and I unconsciously reached down to pet him. Even during the chaos of that moment, it was a comfort to me.  Dr. Moulin was asking me how long he’d been like this and I told him, the best I could – just since I called him, maybe just 20 minutes before.  We were all talking at once, I was telling him about Parker chasing the cat and that he was fine before that – I don’t know how much Dr. Moulin understood, but he asked if he just collapsed.  We both said yes, and then he patted his chest – in which we understood to mean he probably had a heart attack. At the same time, the other vet confirmed what we already knew, our boy was gone.  

Dr. Moulin looked so shocked and sad himself, I think because he had gotten the call from the vet in Brive the day before  who reported that his heart looked good. Skip and I were both leaning over our Parker, crying.  Dr. Moulin said he was so sorry, and gently held both of our hands for a few seconds and left the room.  Then the other vet and the two young women said we could stay, and then they, too, left left the room. 

Alone with our boy….so quiet now.  It was so hard to comprehend.  Less than 30 minutes before, our boy was chasing the brown striped cat – happy, strong, proud of himself.  Now he was laying on the cold stainless steel table, so still.  I looked at Skip and said I was so sorry, I couldn’t save him but I tried so hard.    He said that of course it wasn’t my fault and he hugged me as we cried and cried. Even then we said, “fucking cat!” and I said that if Parker could do it over again, he probably wouldn’t have changed a thing.  

I kept hugging his warm body, laying my head on his side while I slipped my arm up between his front legs, sinking my fingers into the thick, rabbit-like fur on his chest, the way I always did in the mornings when he would come back to bed after his breakfast.  I walked around the table again and again, wanting to touch every part of him, so my hands could memorize his warm, soft fur, his head, his small perky ears, his legs, his fluffy tail with the black spot on it.  I looked at the bottom of his feet to see the tufts of fur between his toes….Skip and I always said that was so cute.  I held his face and put my hand over his half-closed eyes and told him over and over how much I loved him.  I didn’t want to let go of him, didn’t want to leave him.  I didn’t know what to do.  Should I take photos?  I knew these were our last moments with our boy, this boy we loved so, much.  I took a few – his sweet head, his soft ears, the fur tufts between his toes.  And while I helped him close his eyes, I asked Skip to take a photo of his beautiful strawberry blonde eyelashes….which we always loved.  Maybe that was all too weird, but I didn’t know what else to do in those moments.

After some time passed, one of the young women came back into the room with questions about what we wanted to do with Parker.  Poor girl – she couldn’t have been older than 22 and she was sent her in to deal with the distraught Americans, likely emoting far more than your average stoic country French person.  She came to the room armed with a few English words and her phone with Google Translate at the ready, which is our usual method of communicating as well.  She explained, the best she could, about pet cremation and – poor thing – was trying to show us a brochure with urn options – simple to very ornate, trying to tell us the costs and how long it would take.  In French, she said that it could be 15-30 days but that Parker would be held at the vet’s for 7 days in a “cold room” which I needed to clarify via Google Translate.  I hated that. I knew my boy had left his body, he wasn’t there anymore. But how was I going to walk out of that room with him looking like he was just sleeping, knowing he would be cold and stiff and dead, dead, dead, wrapped up in a “cold room” waiting for the next step of this horrible process.  The young woman left again.  I asked Skip if maybe he’d like to bury Parker at our friend’s farm instead – the place he loved so much, but Skip was very clear that he wanted Parker’s ashes home with us….with our other two beloved dogs, Barney and Roxanne.  Of course I agreed.  Poor young woman now back in the room with her credit card machine, timidly asking for payment.  We could tell how uncomfortable she was as we were trying to tell her we were fine with whatever the cost was.  She was so gentle and kind and trying so hard, we could see that.  A big undertaking, I think, for someone so young to manage such an emotionally fraught situation with a major language and cultural barrier.

With one last hug and kiss on his sweet face, we left.  In the parking lot I looked at my phone.  17:13 was the time I called Dr. Moulin from our front yard, it was now 18:16 – all of that trauma, anguish, tears and now silence happened in just one hour.  A silent drive home, so quiet, wrapped in our own thoughts. Home again, now without one third of our little family.  My clothes covered in fur.  We sat on the couch, stunned and talked about our boy, trying to make sense of the whole day… trying to remember if there was a sign, any clue at all that could have predicted that our boy was going to die.  But there was none, he absolutely had the best Parker day – full of smiles, spunk and silliness – playing, eating, walking, and then dying suddenly after chasing the fucking cat – what a way to go, my sweet boy.

I was afraid to go upstairs to our bedroom – too sad not to take Parker out for “bedtime pee pee”, too sad not to see him trot up the stairs and wait at the bedroom door for us to open it (he couldn’t open that door – it has a knob, not a lever, sorry Pal), too sad to take off my fur covered clothes, my last piece of him.

I couldn’t sleep that night – I really think I was suffering from post-traumatic stress.  That terrible drive to the vet was playing over, and over, and over in my head.  My heart was broken and my brain was stunned.  I was overcome with fear and worry that my pup was scared and in pain during our frantic drive.  I couldn’t bear that those would be his last memories as he left this earth – my hysteria, compressing his chest, blowing air into his nose, crying, begging him to breathe and stay with me. The images kept coming, all night long.  

Over the next day or so, I told a few people closest to us.  I told the story of Parker’s wonderful and terrible day.  Skip and I continued to dissect and analyze every minute, every second of that day, trying to make sense of what happened.  I was still so tortured by the thoughts of him scared and in pain.  Those thoughts combined with the crippling grief was almost too much to bear.  But, with the help of one of my best friends – an RN like me – I was able to understand that my boy probably lost consciousness the moment he collapsed.  She pointed out that with his gums so pale, he was not perfusing – no blood flow to the brain. I recognized that the big heaving breaths was really agonal breathing – a sign of near death, a reflex of his brainstem to oxygenate the tissues.  I remembered how his eyes were dilated and seemed unfocused and I could tell he wasn’t  looking back at me.  I believe, in all likelihood, that my boy suffered cardiac arrest.  So crazy that we actually watched his strong, beating heart on ultrasound just one day before.  So hard to grasp this reality since the vet declared his heart healthy.  He was healthy, he was strong. We’ll never really know why it happened, he’s just gone.

I do have some solace knowing that his last day was was such a good one. He wasn’t sick, he was strong, he was happy, he was having fun.  He was having a perfect Parker day. It was wonderful day for both of us and I felt I was truly present with him almost every minute, my hands on him, brushing him, petting him, walking him.  I’m so grateful for that.  I also now believe that he did not suffer, he wasn’t afraid – he was gone the moment he fell to the ground, after completing his sworn duty of chasing the fucking cat out of his yard.  His life ended immediately for him, his body just took a little more time to follow.  Torture for us, but peaceful for our boy, at least that’s what I pray for.  Another one of my best friends told me of a spiritual moment she experienced, in which she understood, very clearly, that Parker was ok, he was good.  Her heart and soul are very open to these things – I believed her and it gave me peace.

So here we are, our little family of three in France now down to just two.  The first few days, I felt like a ghost myself, slowly walking through our house, Parker’s house, the void so vast, yet so many reminders everywhere we looked. I kept seeing him out of the corner of my eye, movements and shadows. Every time the grandfather clock gets ready to strike, it makes a dull metallic thunk which sounds so much like the sound the living room door made when Parker would open it – and we’d always say “aaaand he’s back” or “there he is!” and see him smile.  His food and water bowls, multiple beds, his toys and bones, his fur in the corners, so many things. I spent a lot of time talking to him, “my boy, you’re supposed to be with me right now”.  Coming home is the worst.  No furry boy to greet us enthusiastically or scold us for being late with his dinner.  It’s too quiet. I look out the window all the time, to his yard, his garden wall where he did his neighborhood patrol, the place where he last laid.  I see the fucking cats across the street and say hello.  I tell the brown tabby that I’m not mad at him.  I tell Parker I’ll keep my eye on them.  It was his job to keep us safe from them, a job he took very seriously.  I think to myself over and over that I can’t believe I’ll never see him again, never touch him again.  It still just doesn’t make sense. We should have had years more time with him.

It’s been two weeks now, we cry a little less.  We’ve put away his beds and toys, gave away his food and treats and finally vacuumed his fur from the floors and furniture.  The vet called me yesterday – right when I was writing about when he collapsed .  She was calling to tell me his ashes were ready to be picked up.  Much sooner than expected.  Weird.  We’ll pick them up soon.  I don’t feel any major urgency to run out immediately.  He’s not in that box.  He’s somewhere much better, I hope.