Ramblin’ Road: I announce DK’s sad and tragic ending

by Phyllis McCrossin

Another long week. And suddenly it’s Monday and David T. Young is reminding me I’m late with my column. In all my years as a reporter/editor, I never missed a deadline, but apparently retirement has done something to my sense of urgency and I’m thinking it’s not all bad.

This past Thursday we had to put our most recent rescue dog down. Poor DK had a really, really rough life. For those who don’t know his story, DK was a street dog from Tijuana, Mexico. I’m pretty sure he spent most of his life on the street, but no one can say for certain. It’s a rough, rough life.

When we adopted him there had been several other people who had also considered him for adoption. His weak hind quarters, and skinny body did not make him a good candidate for adoption, but King and I felt sorry for him and took him home with us. King hoisted him into the backseat of the truck where the poor dog promptly hid his head in the corner.

Almost immediately he had health problems — constant diarrhea, falling over, an incessant thirst, a bladder the size of a pea – yes, there were a myriad of things that could contribute to his ailments, we explored all of them.

In the end it was love, a decent diet and lots of middle-of-the-night walks and DK was semi-better. Not healthy, but better. The vet in California questioned our sanity. The vet in Michigan seemed to understand we knew we were in this for the long-haul, but that “long-haul” was probably going to be months rather than years.

DK never became an affectionate dog, and he never displayed the kind of pure joy most dogs exhibit when they are happy. But he whined a greeting when I came home from work and occasionally wagged his tail to show happiness. Most of the time he slept, ate and peed. And that was ok with us. He was comfortable. He had food whenever he wanted it. And when we went for our many, many, many walks, he choose the path.

And then he started getting sick again. There was blood in his urine and he was falling over more frequently. It took several trips to the vet with samples to find the exact type of infection he had and the right type of medication to combat it. The last time we went in we also had x-rays done and they confirmed several things: 1) he had a mass around his prostate and while the vet could not determine if it was cancerous, he suspected it was; 2) he had been shot with a pellet gun at some point in his life as there was a pellet lodged in his leg; 3) it was up to us to decide how much more we wanted to put the poor animal though.

We took him home with more antibiotics and anti-inflammatory medication to keep him comfortable. Three days later his urine was bloody once again and as thick as paint. It was time.

There are those who might say more should have been done. There are those who might say we did too much. I don’t give a flying fig what other’s opinions are. I fixed him a burger, took him for one last walk and drove slowly to the vet. He died in my arms.

I made the trip to the vet alone, King was supposed to stay at home and clean the trailer of all things doggie. He didn’t. He’s ready to jump back into another rescue. I want to decompress for a bit.

I know he will wear me down and we will have another pet before we leave for California in November. It’s the way we roll.