The night of February 7, 2003 was a cold one. We’d had snow a couple of days before, and I was just about ready to crawl under a warm comforter for the night. I needed to let the dogs out before we all headed to bed, however, and when I opened the screen door leading from the back porch to the yard, both dogs quickly ran down the stairs.
I still don’t know exactly what happened. Perhaps Honey, the small dog, got tangled up with my larger dog, or perhaps she slipped on a patch of ice on the stairs. It was dark so I couldn’t see, but I heard her fall, bumping against the steps and the railing. She landed hard with a thud and a yip, and then there was silence.
I could barely make out her form at the bottom of the steps. I ran back into the house for a flashlight and yelled for my son to come help me. I got there first, and Honey was lying on her right side–shivering, drooling and unable to move. I think I’ll always be haunted by the look of fear, shock, pain, and panic in her eyes.
Within 5 minutes we were enroute to the emergency vet clinic, fifteen miles away. Honey was on blankets in the back seat where she whined and struggled to move. At times she would make no noise at all and we feared that she was slipping away.
When we arrived at the clinic and carried her in, the vet took a quick look at her and gave her an injection for pain and also a mild sedative. They did a series of x-rays on her neck and spine, and while there was no obvious fracture, Honey couldn’t move, and she had no feeling in her legs or tail.
The vet suggested that I take her to a university in the southwestern part of the state that has a special veterinary program for animals with spinal cord injuries. They could do advanced tests there–and also surgery, if needed. She warned me, however, that there was no guarantee that any of this would help, and she said that I’d be facing a cost of at least a couple thousand dollars. The other option–if there was no improvement by morning–would be to have her euthanized.
We carried our broken little dog back out to the car to start the cold drive home in the middle of the night. She was calmer, due to the sedative, but she whimpered and cried, and that had me in tears, too.
As much as I love my animals, I was realistic: I simply didn’t have the money for extensive tests and surgery at the university, especially if there was no guarantee that it would be successful. When we got home, I gently put Honey in her bed and prayed that she would be better by morning.
She wasn’t.
While it was difficult to think about, I knew that euthanasia was probably the kindest and most loving thing that I could do, given Honey’s total paralysis. I knew that I couldn’t let her suffer, and I rationalized that she wouldn’t even feel the injection since she was paralyzed.
And if she went to sleep and that was it, well, that would be it. On the other hand, if she went to sleep and her spirit was set free from her broken body, then that would be okay, too.
I also talked with Honey, telling her that she could hang around here (in spirit) if she wanted to, but that she would also be free to explore whatever came next for little puppy dogs at the “Rainbow Bridge.”
With tears streaming down my face, keys in hand, and decision made, I got ready to pick her up and take her for her final trip to the vet. But then I just couldn’t do it.
“What if….?” I thought. “What if she could somehow get better?”
Earlier in my life I’d dealt with another seemingly hopeless situation when vets advised us to put my horse down due to an injury that wouldn’t heal. His ultimate healing was so stunning and so miraculous that it turned my whole world and belief system upside down….
And so I decided I had to wait. I knew it would be harder to consider euthanizing her in a day or a week or a month if there was absolutely no improvement, but I knew that I had to give her a little more time to get better.
As Honey lay immobile in her bed (which was right beside my bed) or on the plastic bags and blankets by my computer, the cats became her constant companions. Kian, my male Seal Point Siamese, was especially concerned about her.
Kai, my male Flame Point Siamese, would sit beside Honey, too, keeping her company. I was surprised to see them take such an interest in this little dog!
The cats watched as I gave Honey her pain medication and used a syringe, at first, to help her drink water. They did their best to “cover” the inevitable floods and messes that (sometimes) made it onto the pads that I had scattered everywhere.
I think they rejoiced with me one night when Honey pulled back her paw when I pinched it: She could feel it! I hoped that was a sign that more improvement would occur.
Kian and Kai became even more involved in Honey’s care. They bathed her head and face with their rough cat tongues, and then they would place their faces against Honey’s face and rub along the full length of her body, purring and purring.
Again and again I watched as they went through this ritual. What was I seeing? I wasn’t sure if I was witnessing some sort of healing massage or what, but they did this repeatedly. I got chills thinking that these kitties seemed to have the intelligence and the skill and desire to offer healing energy to a little hurt dog….
Within a few days, Honey was able to lie in a more upright position, gaining better control over her head and neck.
About a week after her accident, I came home from work and found her leaning against my bedroom door while standing on all four feet! She had a big doggy grin of accomplishment on her face, and the next day she took her first unsteady steps since the accident.
Honey continued to improve, and on March 30, 2003, a little over seven weeks from the time that she was totally paralyzed, I was able to capture a picture of her frisking in the snow!
My vet was amazed by this little dog’s recovery. I told her about my cats’ involvement in her healing, and to my surprise, she said that it did sound like Kian and Kai were purposely trying to heal and to comfort Honey.
She went on to say that there are so many things that we just don’t know about animal communication and intelligence–and love….
Honey was still a little awkward when she walked–and she would sometimes fall if she tried to run too quickly–but she seemed happy! She didn’t seem to be in any pain, and she was (again) my “Velcro dog,” following me from room to room. She and Kian, her primary feline healer, were closer than ever.
I often think about the morning that was nearly the last morning of Honey’s life in early 2003. All of the “logic” said that euthanasia was the right thing to do, but I’m so glad that I decided to ask “What if….?” and wait for an answer.
February 15, 1994 – May 23, 2008
© SKB 2003, 2023