Misty Mae

 Misty Mae

Misty came into my life five days after my beloved Peyton passed away from cancer. He was my show Afghan. His breeder contacted me and let me know she had a female I could have for the cost of airfare. How could I say no? I drove to Vegas and picked her up. She was scared, barking, eyes wide, and shaking in a claims area. I took her out of the travel crate and hugged her.  I dedicated the song Yellow and Sparks by Coldplay to her and sang them to her as we drove home.

Afghan hound puppies look like little lambs when they are young. They have long feet, a long nose, and short, fuzzy hair. Misty was a blonde domino color. She had white diamonds around her eyes, two white patches on her shoulders, and white markings on her legs. She was a very serious puppy who would stop and sit while she figured things out. She loved to chew on shoes, furniture, and anything left on the floor. 

Unlike Peyton, who slept next to me, Misty would sleep on the floor, on her dog bed, or curled up at my feet. I always knew when I could drift off for good once she lay her head across my feet and sighed. She started sleeping beside me all night when I moved into my place downtown.

I showed Misty three times. She did not like it. She didn't like being in the ring and hated it when the judges tried to check her hindquarters. She was almost disqualified from her third show. At that moment, I decided that she would not be a show dog like Peyton. 

During her teething stage, she tore two chairs apart. Luckily, this phase passed. She was a great couch potato, a lounging queen. I bought a lounge chair for the yard, which quickly became her favorite seat outdoors. 

Every night, I combed her hair. It was a calming ritual that mentally prepared us for bedtime. This past week, with her being too sick and weak to get on the crate and stand for long, has been an adjustment I didn't want to face. It was a sign of things going downhill. That, and her lack of interest in food. She has always been a food hound and was well known for being able to steal food off your plate before you even noticed. For her to turn down food was not a good sign. 

When she was younger, she gained a lot of weight. I had her checked out and was informed she had a thyroid issue. She was put on medication to help with the weight and give her energy to burn calories. We would walk twice daily, play tag, or hide and seek in the house. My friend Rosa gave me a stuffed dog that became Misty's favorite toy. She would sleep with it. In fact, when I look over at her right now, curled up on the couch, she is hugging her stuffed dog. 

I loved traveling with her. We went to Vegas three times and Salt Lake City four times. She went with me to Brainhead. We traveled to Flagstaff with my mom and stayed in a beautiful Craftsman-style bungalow. She fell in love with the yard. I wanted to take her to places like Monument Valley, Moab, and Healdsburg, California, for a wine tour. 

In January of this year, she didn't want to go for walks and turned down treats. She was having bowel issues. I took her to the vet, and they discovered a mass on her spleen. It wasn't cancerous. She was scheduled to have a splenectomy. I walked her around the St George temple the night before she went in. I wanted to be somewhere that felt sacred. They removed the spleen, and she was given a clean bill of health. Dogs can live anywhere from two to five years after the removal of the spleen. Her appetite came back. She wanted to go for walks, but her bowels were off and on. I finally found a food regimen that worked. I got her on a probiotic that helped with the bowel issues. She was acting like a puppy again. Except she still didn't want to go for long walks. And then ... in November, she didn't want to eat. She turned down her treats. She started to lose weight. 

This is the hardest part about being an animal lover, when your fur baby is sick and can't tell you what is wrong. Is it the food? Is it the water? I took her to the vet. She had a liver infection. How the hell did she get a liver infection? It's not like a cold. Is there a virus that goes around attacking livers? She wasn't drinking alcohol or doing anything to kill her liver like people do. 

She had also gone from 54 pounds to  47. But okay, she was old. Ten and a half years. My first Afghan hound, Joey, lived for thirteen years before dying of a brain tumor. Peyton lived nine years before dying from cancer of the intestine. Misty was ten and a half. Dogs don't live long enough. She stayed overnight for fluids. She went on medication. A week later, she went back. I thought she was doing better. She was eating. Her poops were normal. She even wanted to go for a short walk to the corner several times. But no. She'd lost four pounds. And now the issue was in her kidneys. More fluids and more medication, one of which made her sick. She could barely walk down the hallway. She was hardly eating.

And this ... this is where you just want to cry your heart out at the inability to fix anything. I wanted to slam my fists against the wall and break things. I wanted the magical superpower to read an animal's mind and say hey, this is what is wrong, and here is how to fix it. But I don't have that. I can only try to get her to eat. Try to get her to keep her medication down. Try to come to terms with the fact that it just might be time to let her go. 

Saturday morning, she wanted to sleep on the concrete. It was nice and cool. Clearly, she is feverish. She refused to eat anything except mashed butternut squash and sweet potato with a tiny bite of chicken and broth. She wanted to go out front. I was swapping my autumn lights for white ones. I let her out. She fell, trying to take a poo. She couldn't get back up to finish it. I helped her stand, and she could walk a few steps before lying down. I cleaned her up, brought her inside, and helped her get on the couch. I combed her hair. I fed her some squash. I held her tight and apologized for all the times I lost my temper with her. I shared memories with her. So many magical moments. What is that old saying? "Dogs are not our whole life, but they make our lives whole." Absolutely true. 

This morning, she couldn't walk without help. I made the call every owner hates to make. I spent the hour before holding her, singing to her, and telling her stories. I carried her out to the car. She was carried to the Vet's special room on a gurney and transported inside like the princess she was. I held her. I loved her. And she passed peacefully.

Misty Mae was a stubborn, fun-loving, goofy girl. I equated her to a beautiful cheerleader who had no idea she was beautiful. She was like a really pretty blonde you see walking down the street who suddenly trips, almost falls, and catches herself. 

I may have screwed up a few times, but I did my best to spoil her rotten. In fact, looking back over our time together, I was devoted to her. She was my relationship. I loved her. I will miss coming home and hearing her bark when I unlock the door. I will miss the sound of her nails on the floor. I will miss her nudging my hand to stop writing and pay attention to her. I will miss our walks. I will miss combing her hair every night. I will miss snuggling next to her in bed. I will miss sitting on the couch with her head in my lap and stroking her fine golden blonde hair. My heart is breaking, tears are falling, and all I can do is stroke her hair, hold her close, and whisper, "I love you," as I say goodbye.