Smokey, Tim's pet, had to be put to sleep Thursday, December 20th. She was 16-1/2 years old and we'd had her since she was about 6 weeks old. The last week or so she'd gotten to feeling bad, didn't play with her companion and niece, 14 year old Misty like usual, didn't really want to do anything except lie down, and then the last couple of days Smokey didn't want to eat. I don't know if she was even drinking anything. I took her to Hewitt's Animal Hospital and veterinarian Amanda Lewis examined her, drew blood, then x-rayed her. Smokey's belly and chest cavity seemed to be filled with fluid, so they drew some off with a syringe. It was all blood. She was extremely anemic and had lost a lot of weight. The vet couldn't tell me where the blood was coming from, just that Smokey was extremely sick. There just weren't any good options. The probability was that a tumor was eroding a blood vessel in her abdomen. At her age, exploratory surgery would require a specialist in Columbia to perform, and even then there was a low likelihood of finding something treatable. The only kind, compassionate thing to do was to put her to sleep.
I was so horrified and grief-stricken that I just broke down. I called Shelby and she came down to be with Smokey and me, we held her and talked to her, stroked her head and told her she was my pretty girl, and the vet gave her an injection. One little breath and it was over.
I had thought maybe Smokey needed insulin again or perhaps an antibiotic, but nothing really too serious. She'd been so strong, so beautiful, except for a supposedly benign growth on her lower lip -- now I have to wonder if that growth was indicative of other internal growths or tumors. The vet had told us several years ago that it wasn't anything to worry about, it probably wouldn't heal up if they tried to remove it and it didn't interfere with Smokey eating or drinking.
Smokey had been Tim's pet for the last several years, always sitting on top of Tim's talking book machine on his desk (where it was warm) or in his lap. After Tim died, Smokey grieved right along with me. She wouldn't even get up on his desk, although I left the book machine there for a while before returning it to the Library for the Blind. She wouldn't go into his office and sit on his windowsill or anything, just seemed to revert to me, wanting to be in my lap if I was in the living room, or by feet if I was in my office.
Last night I could hear Tim telling me how beautiful Smokey is - is, not was - and that she's strong and healthy, able to go in and outside at will, looking all around her new home and getting used to being there. In my mind several months ago I'd seen Tim running across a field, playing with his white German Shepherd Star. Now I'm seeing Tim petting Smokey.
Misty came and sat in my lap Thursday for almost the first time, even before I took Smokey to the vet. She seemed to know that Smokey was sick. Misty had never wanted to sit on anyone's lap before, although she would sit by my side on the chair or down by my feet in the recliner. And she usually sleeps on the bed beside me. From Thursday afternoon until now, she's quietly, softly walked from room to room, looking for Smokey. I talk to her and try to play with her as much as possible.
She and Smokey had sort of a stand-offish relationship. They chased each other around the house, spit and clawed occasionally, but then would call a truce and lie down near each other. Smokey usually let Misty eat first, although sometimes Misty would just back up and let Smokey get to a food dish first. Misty was the offspring of one of Smokey's sisters and they were shaped alike, medium sized, sleek, Siamese type -- Smokey's mom was a full-blooded seal point.
I really miss having Smokey but if there are pets in heaven, and I'm sure there are, then she and Tim are back together.
Smokey was solid black, Misty is solid gray.
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