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“Wade, I’m taking Queenie to the hospital.  I think she’s dying.”  This was the alarm clock today at 6 AM.  After rushing into the kitchen, Queenie is lying on a makeshift bed of blankets.  She’s breathing hard and not moving.  My sister, a veterinary technician, was already on her way to our house to pick us up and hurry us to the hospital.

I’m going to miss how she asked to go out.  She would sit about 10 feet away and stare the “chosen one” in the eyes.  The chosen one had to take her out.  Her little marble eyes would bead a hole right through the person.  There was no escaping her stare.  She wanted to go out.

The ride to the hospital is very nervous.  A light snow the previous night had resulted in a dusting on cars and some areas of the road.  A tractor-trailer is in front of us not going fast enough.  In fact, our car is not going fast enough.  We need to get to the hospital now.  Now.  We illegally pass the tractor-trailer.  Damn the law.

I’m going to miss the times that she dreamt.  She would make a little woof, then a soft whimper, and then woof again.  Her body would shake a little.  Her paws would move back and forth as if she was walking.  I wonder what she dreamt of:  Trotting during walk around the block?  Chasing squirrels through the backyard?  Perhaps playing with her mother and siblings whom she had not seen for almost 14 years?

The veterinarian tries to joke, but can easily tell we are too stressed to laugh.  He doesn’t try again.  Queenie is shaking as she sits on the examination table.  She receives fluids; she is dehydrated.  She has x-rays taken.  Now an EKG.  Her heart rate is fast.  Now a blood test. Her potassium is high.  She is in Addisonian shock.  She’s been through this once before, and we never expected it again.  After all, she was on a monthly shot and had been taking medication daily for Cushing’s Disease.  The doctor says we need to monitor her all day long.  She needs to urinate.  Her kidneys are failing.  Toxins will build up.  She needs to “make urine”, as the doctor stated.  “If not, she will need to be euthanized.”

I’m going to miss her barking at strangers.  If she saw someone out for a walk, even if they were close to a quarter of a mile down the road, she would let out a woof, then stand in the middle of the sidewalk waiting.  Her tail would point straight up, her back would stiffen, and her ears straightened.  She looked like a classic Scottie.  Once the person or dog got closer, her tail would wag, her ears would flatten against her head, and she would trot over to say hello.

The entire family is monitoring her in my sister’s house.  Even my sister’s dog and cats have gathered around her.  She’s receiving an IV drip: 70 mL per hour.  We let her rest.  She tries to sleep.  The pain is too great, so she sits rather than lying down.  Her breathing is labored.  After a few hours, we take her out and hope she urinates.  She doesn’t.  Back to waiting.  After another few hours, with much relief, she urinates.  Lots.  Now she just needs to be seen by the doctor.

I’m going to miss how she lived up to the nickname Snotty Scottie.  When someone visited her for the first time, they had two options: show Queenie attention or ignore her.  Those that showed her attention would always get a happy greeting when visiting again, tail wagging and all.  Those that ignored her must have regretted it.  If they came to visit again, she might raise her head to look at them, but then she’d tuck it back in and go to sleep.  They got the cold shoulder.  A well-deserved cold shoulder.

Queenie has urinated, but she’s not feeling any better.  She’s feeling worse.  She won’t stand.  The doctor said she’s doing better, though.  Probably just tired, after all, it’s been a long day.  My sister took her back to her house to monitor overnight and to take her to work with her the next day.  The rest of us went home quite distraught but feeling better about the potential positive prognosis.

I’m going to miss how she bugged for food.  No matter where you were sitting, on a couch, at the table, or standing by the sink, she would find some way to poke your shin with her nose.  She would poke and poke until you looked at her.  Once you did, forget about eating the entire meal yourself.  She would give a look that said, “How can you not give me food?  I’m too cute!”  She always got what she wanted.

The phone rings.  It is my sister.  Queenie is not well.  She might not make it.  We need to get to her house fast.  We started putting our coats and shoes on as fast as we could with tears streaming down our faces.

The phone rang again.

I’m going to miss her.

Rest in peace, sweet Queenie.