Second Chances

Sometimes in life we are given a second chance. Often this occurs if we don’t get something right the first go round, just a gentle way of getting our lessons.

I was given a second chance in the form of a tiny ten-pound, mangy beagle. Her name was Chance.

One day in December, I got a call from my friend Patty.

“Kay, there’s a tiny, sickly, pregnant beagle at the SPCA, and she needs help.”

Patty, a vet tech, had been calling me and alerting me every time a beagle in need hit the shelters. Anyone familiar with Virginia will know, then, that this became a frequent message on my voice mail, for beagles, used for hunting, but often discarded when no longer viable hunting hounds, are a ubiquitous sight behind the mesh fencing of the shelters and pounds. I, however, did not want a beagle. After losing my first dog Lauren, a beagle, to cancer, I was not yet ready for another. I had a dog, Flash (a miniature dachshund), and I wanted him to be an only dog for a while, lavished with attention. I also wanted to be able to travel to Europe again, which I could easily do with tiny Flash, but two dogs instantly added “difficult” to the equation. Most of all, I didn’t want to appear to be replacing Lauren. One doesn’t replace one life with another. It was much too soon for my broken heart, yet something in Patty’s voice nudged me to at least have a look.

When Patty and I arrived at the SPCA, I was taken to the isolation unit where “the tiny, mangy beagle” was, and Patty walked up and down looking in the outside runs. When I opened the door to isolation, what I saw was a small, diluted black and tan heap of dog fur lying limply on a blanket. It was not the lovely black, rich brown and white tri-color of most hounds and of my beloved Lauren---it was more like a dingy dish towel. I knelt down, noticing the pink bald spots on the black coat, and as I stroked, the limp lump revived a little bit, but otherwise seemed unresponsive.

Subsequent visits back to the SPCA, often alone, to check on this motley scrap of beagle, revealed that while she was not pregnant, she did have a severe case of mange and could not be taken to any home for at least a month for fear of spreading the condition.

On January 27^th, however, I led a small, homely, and still mangy beagle out into the parking lot and into my truck to meet Flash. I was not adopting her, you see, but rather fostering her for beagle rescue. I knew she was too ugly for regular adoption---covered in pink and red sores around her face, ears and anus. The hairless spot on her back was getting better, but her nose remained pink and freckled where the fur had not grown in. To add injury to insult (sic), she ran on three legs, for I discovered she had luxating patellas and would most likely need surgery. Not exactly the sort of dog about which one says, “Oh I want that one!” Except for me. I felt drawn to the homely little thing, precisely because of her pathetic appearance. Yet still I didn’t want another dog. It was too hard after Lauren, too soon.

Perhaps the outcome of this story is all too obvious to readers, for Chance hobbled into our household and into our hearts. She is not Lauren, though perhaps Lauren sent her to me. I yearned for Flash to be “top dog”, but it was not for me to decide, and he demurs to Chance, happily settling into the role and hierarchy he once had under Lauren, second dog to the dominant bitch.

As the months passed, I realized this little Chance really was my second chance at getting it right, for I had loved Lauren with a poignancy and devotion rarely equaled in our human relationships, but also with perhaps a smothering and overprotective hand (for fear that something would “happen” to her) that made for the less than perfect environment. It was not up to me to decide her fate anymore than it is up to me to decide Chance’s or Flash’s fate. Fate has intervened and seen that I take on these wonderful creatures as my charges and my companions, and as my friends and teachers. I can love them; I can give them the best care possible, but I must let them be. In different words, I must let them live. I always kept Lauren on a leash on walks for fear she’d run off and become lost if I let her loose. My one wish is that I had let her loose more. Flash now reaps the rewards of this useless longing, and is always loose. In return, he is perfect and has never run off. But Chance, like Lauren, is a beagle, thus prone to follow her nose into far away lands. Yet still, I now, often not without nervousness or trepidation, will let Chance off her leash and listen to her bay on the scent of a rabbit as she runs high up in the hills or across the fields. And when I do, I close my eyes, and I hear Lauren too.

Chance has brought me closer to Lauren, for in her I see the continuation of all things in life. There is no separating life from death. We say goodbye to those we loose because we must, and we go on loving those we can also because we must. Chance is a spoke in the wheel of my eternity. With Flash, she completes a transient, ephemeral moment in the continuing circle. Her entering my life in the way in which she did helps me to understand the necessary plan. She helps me to understand what enables us to make deep level changes in our lives, the kind of change that requires letting go of the reins of control, the kind of change that requires trust of the unknown. She symbolizes the second chance we all wish we had, and she reminds me to smile at the stranger, to listen to the old man’s story, to stop and behold the spider’s scaffolding or the beauty of a flower’s scent and colour---to take that extra moment, because these will be the small (and large) acts remembered at the end of a day,… at the end of a lifetime, not the hustling and rushing to get things (mostly trivial) done. She and all animals remind me we are here to just Be.

Thank you Lauren. Thank you Flash. Thank you Patty.

And thank you Chance, for a second chance at getting life right.

Second Chances

Part II

Chance, my second chance dog, was also given a second chance. At least that’s the way I see it. Sometimes only from the most difficult and heartrending times do our souls anneal, gaining us insight, understanding, compassion and strength.

My anguish began on a Tuesday afternoon in August. I was working in my restaurant when my mother stopped by to say hi, bring flowers for the tables, then drive on to my house to graciously walk my two dogs, Flash a miniature dachshund, and Chance a Cheagle (mostly beagle, with a pinch of Chihuahua). Close to the midday rush, I picked up the ringing phone to, “Kay, come quickly. Something has happened to Chance.”

“What…?”

“Don’t ask questions. Just come. Meet me at the end of the drive.”

“Okay. I’m coming.”

I dropped everything and drove the ten minutes to my house. There I found my mother who told me something had happened to Chance. She’d been stung by a bee or bitten by a snake, and now was lost. My mother had not wanted to leave her. She’d tried to carry her, but when Chance bit her, she ran with all her seventy years of speed to my house to do what she thought best, phone me quickly.

Running through the underbrush and woods, ripping my legs and arms on briars, splashing in my shoes through the creek, I called over and over again, “Chance,” but I could see or find her nowhere. Yet once in a while both my mother and I could hear her whine. I knew she was somewhere hurt, and my only prayer was that I’d get to her in time.

“Chance! Chance, where are you?”

And we’d hear her cry again. Closer and closer I’d circle, but no Chance. Was she moving from place to place? Was she hiding from us so she might die alone? Still no dog. I ran to the house. I climbed up on a fence to look down. Finally, still circling, I discovered her huddled in a ditch. When I reached down to pick her up, she whined, but did not bite. I called to my mother and only then, with Chance in my arms running awkwardly to my truck, I cried my first tears. They were tears of joy.

In the truck, she kept looking at her stomach. What had she done?

The first vet, the closest vet, I took her to diagnosed her with luxating patellas, something I already knew.

“You didn’t see any sign of snakebite?” I asked.

“No. Nothing unusual.”

“That’s good.”

He X-rayed her and said she was probably impacted. Best to operate.

I said Okay, even though my intuition was telling me something different. Oh Chance. The vet walked away, and I crouched down to try to be with her in the cold, sterile little cage. I ran my hands over her body and she cried. She had a swelling on her side. Then I noticed blood in two distinct places where her hair tufted out. I showed the vet.

“Well, good for you.” He gave her water quickly for she had none in her little cage. Hydration is extremely important with snakebites. I asked for anti-venom and he said it was controversial, besides, he had none. It was too expensive to keep around. He gave her Benadryl, Epenephrin and pain killer. I left, and worked all day with my scratched up face and soaking pant legs then, near dusk, drove to retrieve Chance and take her to the emergency vets in town.

Life’s ironies often show up in unforetold moments. I parked under the same oak tree as I had when I realized irrevocably that my first beagle, Lauren’s cancer had returned and that she would have to be put to sleep. Letting old thoughts linger, I took Chance in, explaining her situation, and felt the ghosts of the past all around. When Flash and I returned to the truck, I did not cry like I had on that soft but cold spring night, but instead, sought to understand the wonderful continuation of life. I had endured pain then, we would get through this too.

Wednesday

When I drove the 45 minutes back to the emergency vets, I was ever so relieved when told that Chance would be fine. The veterinarian on call said I would need to hotpack her stomach several times daily.

“No problem,” I said with a smile.

It was while I was hotpacking Chance as she lay on her side on my bed that I began to get nervous. The blood on the white towel was not the reason why. It was Chance herself. She just seemed strange. I called my own vet.

“Yes, go ahead, bring her in,” Dr. John said. And driving the hour plus it took to get to him, I felt guilty. ’Ole overprotective Kay, I’d overreacted once again. I should be saving money, but was instead funneling it down vet holes.

At the close of work day, I drove back anxious to see Chance. I hadn’t overreacted. For the second time in two days my intuition had led me to the right choice, and I knew more than ever there was a wisdom in listening to one’s inner voice. Had I left Chance at home and gone into work, on my return I would have found her dead. She was bleeding internally. At the vets, her hermatocrits had dropped perilously low, to 14, and when Patty, the tech, wheeled her to me, there were tears in her eyes. Chance was hooked up to a bag of Oxygloben. I was terrified.

I spoke with Dr. John and together we decided I would drive to the Emergency Referral Clinic outside of Richmond where Chance would receive the best care and have the greatest chance of survival. But, oh no. Now Flash, my dachshund would have to spend the night all alone. I called a friend to drive over and feed him, then Chance, hooked up to her Oxygloben pack, and I drove together silently in the night to the emergency vets. Silently that is until I began to sing to her. All I knew is I wanted to remain cheerful for Chance. Before leaving Dr. John had handed me his cell phone to use. I protested, but he insisted. I was stunned, but also grateful.

Once again the familiar feeling of a place I knew produced mixed sensations. When the receptionist found me in the computer, she asked if I still had Lauren, and I said no.

When I met the first vet Chance was to have at VRCC, she said the snake had been a rattlesnake from the width of the fang marks, and explained that she would use steroids to stop Chance’s bleeding. It all sounded so easy, I felt relieved that help was coming for my dog. I walked back out to the cab of my truck in the hot, mosquito laden night, lied down and tried to sleep. I thought of Flash and I thought of Chance. I had told the doctor to come out should her condition worsen, and I panicked when she came out the first time to tell me Chance’s hermatocrits had dropped still lower. They had, therefore, given her a real blood transfusion this time, not the Oxygloben. The second time the doctor came out was to invite me to sleep inside. She’d taken pity on me in the cab of my truck with the windows rolled down in the heat and the mosquitoes so many they were grossly audible. There on the cool, comfortable sofa in a back visiting room, I lay my exhausted head down, while my thoughts were a whirlwind of Chance and Flash.

Thursday

I was awakened at 6:00 the next morning and told that Chance was not doing well: her red cells were bleeding out. She wasn’t clotting. I listened and felt my stomach pack in the way it always did in fear. Then they brought her to me.

I was stunned. Her right side was normal, but her left side was so swollen with edema and blood, she looked like an elephant dog. Her huge stomach was bruised purple and red and she was bleeding out her anus. Again I was terrified, if blood can get out, bacteria can get in. I sat helpless, trying to comfort her, but she cried out when I touched her. Visiting hours were regimented, so when the tech came to get her I knew there was nothing for me to do than to drive home.

The day was a blur in between phone calls to the clinic to check on Chance. Her hermatocrits had risen to 30 after the blood transfusion, but dropped steadily as the day’s hours advanced. And as they fell, my hopes fell with them, and my fear grew. I remember planting Day Lilies in the heat and wondering if Chance would see them bloom. When I returned to the vets in the evening, this time with Flash, I willed my mind to expect a recovering Chance. But it was not to be. This time she was rolled in on a dolly. She was unresponsive, and I hoped it was the morphine. I placed my hands gently on her swollen body and attempted the practice of Ton Lin, whereby you take the pain and suffering of someone into yourself. I told her I loved her. I told her I wouldn’t give up on her. I stayed beside her for a long time, then they took her away from me, and Flash and I walked to my truck to begin our night.

Friday

In the night, Chance’s PCV dropped to 9, her lowest yet. The doctor had given her another transfusion, but now they were out of blood. To compound my fear and stress, she warned me how hard it was to cross match Chance because of the Oxygloben. I urged her to please just keep giving Chance blood till she pulled through, but was told that with each transfusion the risk grew exponentially. Multiple and continuing transfusions, one after another, were not options. I began to become really, really scared.

Driving home on I 64, I reached for Dr. John’s personal cell phone. I dialed my mother, who along with my brother and sister and father, had been giving me emotional support. Waverly, her partner, told me she was in the hospital with a broken back and shattered heal. Sometimes in moments of extreme pain and fear, something takes over. I found myself going into myself, becoming very quiet and calm. Now I was more concerned about my mother than Chance. Waverly explained where she was, so together Flash (in his mesh travel bag) and I marched into Martha Jefferson Hospital. I kissed my mother, then produced Flash from the mesh bag. She was horrified. I asked if she might like to hear him sing. I think at that point we both laughed through our tears, and she insisted I stuff Flash back into the bag, lest we all get thrown out. As we left, my mind felt ready to burst.

Saturday

The phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Hello,” said an English sounding voice. “Is this Ms. Pfaltz?”

“Yes.”

“Hello, this is Dr. Davies. I’m calling about Chance.”

Chance had died in the night. I knew it. “Yes?” I said meekly.

“I’ve been switched to her case. It’s an unusual case, and I cannot pretend she isn’t in very critical condition. Out of fifteen emergencies, I’m calling you second.” She explained to me that the next three days would be crucial and that she wanted to give Chance a plasma infusion. I said okay, then said what I always said. “Please don’t give up on her.”

“Oh no. We won’t.”

I liked this veterinarian immediately. I found out later that Dr. John did too, and that she was actually South African, not English.

Again I was very scared. My mother was in the hospital in serious condition. Chance just kept bleeding and bleeding. I knew she couldn’t go on receiving blood indefinitely. Was her immune system damaged beyond repair? Was this what the doctor was trying to warn me of? Is not feeling impotent, being unable to assuage the pain of those one loves, one of the greatest pains to endure? I drove to Caring for Creatures that morning for a book signing.

There I was showered with love and compassion by like-minded people, particularly Beverly Faukenberry who plopped down next to me after reading my hand-lettered sign.

Chance. Bitten by a snake on Tuesday, August 12^th. Three blood transfusions, one plasma transfusion. Still critical. Please pray.

This day was the hardest. I left the signing early and drove to be with Chance. Flash and I sat in the waiting room until Chance was wheeled in. When I saw her, I tried not to cry. When normally, she was lying upright, today she was flat on her side, all bandaged up, with three I.V.s. I kept hoping and praying, but now, even though I tried hard to be positive, for the first time I truly believed I could lose her, and was horrified when an ugly little thought flitted through my mind: what would life be like without Chance. When the door closed and the tech had gone, I put my face down to her fur and cried. But this would do her no good at all, so I stopped and lightly stroked her malformed little body. She looked awful. Her stomach was still black and blue and swollen but now her legs were too. As she lay on her side, her legs twitched and jerked, then she gave one great convulsion and I thought she was gone.

“Chance.”

She breathed in. I slipped my left hand under her head and lifted it and she lay more comfortably like that. Much of the time she panted from pain, and this while taking high doses of morphine. I told her I wouldn’t give up on her no matter what, and at that moment I prayed to Lauren to help us out. I had to save Chance.

Sunday

Perhaps it was the turtles on the road. The first one I spied looked damaged, and it was with trepidation that I turned my truck around to go back. Not one scratch on it! And my heart rose a little from the low place it’d been residing as I set the turtle on the edge of the road. The second turtle was alive and well, but wouldn’t be for long in the midst of a busy four-lane divided highway. Again, I stopped. This guy, a male, waved his orange head and legs around wildly as I picked him up. Okay buddy, safety. To me they symbolized my mother and Chance.

I drove to my mother, now home from the hospital, and helped her do the things she couldn’t do. She hated to ask for help, but I knew she needed it. As I spent the morning at my mother’s, I felt simultaneously great love and the sense one gets from helping those one loves, and also an anxiousness, an eerie feeling that Chance could have died in the night. Dr. Davies would have been unable to reach me, as I’d left before dawn.

In the afternoon, Flash and I drove the two hours to VRCC. I was nervous and scared, but glad nevertheless to be getting closer to Chance. With Flash in his bag beside me, I waited. When the techs at last brought Chance in to me, she was not flat on the dolly, but carried in towels. Her ears were pricked and she was looking at me. Chance had turned a corner for the better. I took her from the tech, then, placing her on the bench, I wept tears of joy. Oh, Chance! She would spend another week at the clinic recovering, but she was out of immediate danger. I thanked the powers that be. And I thanked Lauren.

That evening, because I didn’t have to work the next day, Flash and I stayed in a hotel to be near Chance. Just like in the hospital, he was strictly forbidden in the hotel. But like in the hospital, where he would have willingly sung for my mother, here he patiently stayed by my side, offering the wise and quiet comfort that in its purest form is often only found within our animal friends.

One year later

My mother, as readers may well know from the summer issue, is once again mobile and madly marching around through the woods with her dog Tippy. Just pray that she remains upright this time.

And Chance runs about in the yard with Flash, straying off into the garden where she digs up those beautiful Day Lilies I planted.

Reflections of a Dog

As the 3-yr anniversary of Lauren’s death approaches, I find myself reflecting on a great love. Quote Patty’s quote.

The Silver Lining

Flash. The stabilizing element.

Here’s a Problem

Shelia and what happened.