Almost five years to the day Alice lumbered into my life, she was still seeking my love and attention in the same way she always did — a belly rub.

I don’t remember what led me to look at the Natchez-Adams County Humane Society’s website in February 2011, but I did. And I found a cute, little, skinny dachshund dog staring back at me from the computer screen.

Our family had a mostly-dachshund mutt dog when I was growing up, and tiny little 93-A (that was Alice’s shelter number) just reminded me of our childhood dog, I suppose.

My wife Julie and I went to shelter for a visit and met the unwed mother of two puppies (who had already been adopted) and were instantly smitten.

Alice was a dog that at first glance just had a nice demeanor about her. If someone — anyone — reached down to pet her, Alice instantly rolled over and awaited the contact with her belly.

So it was with a bit of false hope one week ago today that she managed to lumber into the den, climb into her bed next to my chair and roll over.

It had been a rough few days since we first noticed her breathing heavily and panting for no particular reason. A quick trip to the vet provided the bad news — congestive heart failure. She was struggling to breath and her heart was so enlarged that it was pushing against her trachea, making breathing difficult.

The vet suggested all hope was not lost, but hinted the hope that was possible was likely a long shot.

He said trying to remove the fluid from around her heart through medication was worth a try. Several days — and one 3-year-old’s birthday party — later and we’d only seen minor hints of improvement.

Sunday afternoon, though, Alice seemed to perk up a bit. I spent a long time rubbing her belly and watching her seem to relish every stroke.

Within a few hours, the hope faded. Alice seemed to know the end was near. After several long discussions and an adequate amount of tears, we made the decision to take her to the vet’s office the following morning for a final check to ensure our decision to end her life was medically sound.

We went to bed at around 11:45 p.m., and Alice was seemingly resting as comfortably as she had been able since the symptoms began.

At approximately 1:45 a.m., thunder shook the house, waking me and sparking a sense of dread — Alice was terrified of thunder. She would always come unglued at the sound of it.

I quickly got up, told Julie I was going to check on her and found her lying perfectly still, lifeless, on her side, awaiting another belly rub.

The suddenness with which her health declined probably exacerbated the pain and reminded me of my own mortality.

The most challenging task was ahead — telling a 3-year-old that the dog she’d just begun to truly interact with was gone forever.

Julie explained to young Anna that Alice had died and that she wasn’t going coming back. The tiny wheels began to spin as she tried to process this.

It’s been more of a process than an event for Anna. She’s asked about Alice several times and at one point asked innocently: Is she in heaven?

While I don’t recall that it says anywhere in the Bible that dogs go to heaven, despite an animated film assuring us all they do, I couldn’t muster any answer except: Yes, baby. God is taking care of her now.

It was truer than Anna’s young mind could understand. As I shut the door on the last night I saw Alice alive, I prayed to God not to let her suffer. He took care of her before the first thunderclap rumbled and in doing so, made things easier for us, too.

Call me a wuss, but for some reason Alice’s death hit me harder than I’d have imagined. She had not been in our lives all that long — five years. And the more we got to know her, she wasn’t all that lovable — she routinely stole food from our other dog, ate other dogs’ poop, rolled in anything she could find that was dead and was pretty selfish, particularly when it came to belly rubs.

But like most dogs, she was insanely excited by our arrival and our attention.

As sad as her death was, we gave her a loving home for five years she might not otherwise have had, and despite all of the heartache toward the end, the joy she gave us far exceeded the pain of seeing her go.

 

Kevin Cooper is publisher of The Natchez Democrat. He can be reached at 601-445-3539 or kevin.cooper@natchezdemocrat.com.