Six years, just six short years ago, we brought a small, wiggly Saint Bernard puppy into our family and love for the dog and the breed began. I picked him because something in him spoke to me. If asked, even then I could not have told you what it was about him that made him more desirable than the many other puppies that wriggled around on the blanket lying on the lawn that day. Perhaps it was one of those God things. A nudge that points you in a direction and whether you know where that path leads or not, you go. Whatever it was, we brought him home and we named him Mudge.
Mudge was joy dressed in fur. He was beautiful, silly, outgoing, and ready to greet each day and each person he met with tail wagging and heart wide open. When we walked him, people would cross the street so they could meet him. Drivers would frequently slow their cars to yell out the window, "That's a beautiful dog!" Some even stopped their cars to get out and pet him. He was the embodiment of everything a good therapy dog should be, and that was our goal from the start. His name came from a popular children's book series, "Henry and Mudge," and it was chosen with the idea of forging an instant connection with children he might meet as he visited hospitals as a therapy dog. Or perhaps he would lie quietly on a carpet in his role as a reading assitance dog while a child struggled through reading a book aloud.
For two years I diligently trained him so that his manners were impeccable and he would breeze through any testing required for his therapy dog certification. And my family loved him. Our lives revolved around him and after the bad thing happened, I loved him with a ferocity that cannot be explained with mere words on a page.
When Mudge was just shy of two years old I enrolled him in a Canine Good Citizen (CGC) class. The next step would be therapy certification. Then it happened. On a morning just a few days before the CGC class was to begin I was in the kitchen. My two children, Thomas (age 10 at the time) and Teagan (age 7) were milling about the house. I heard a loud thud as if something had fallen and when I went into the living room to investigate Mudge was lying on his side thrashing violently. His big, beautiful head slapped against the floor. His floppy lips that I'm sure I'd held half a dozen times that morning as I kissed him on the nose were now pulled back in a terrifying grimace. His legs paddled against the floor as though he were trying to escape. A puddle of urine surrounded his haunches. I screamed his name and shook his shoulder. The kids both came running and bore witness to the horror of what our lives with Mudge were to become.
It didn't really last long. Less than two minutes by the clock, but it was and always will be an eternity in my heart. I called the vet and cried and choked out that my dog was having a seizure and I didn't know what to do. I'm so grateful for the calm manner in which the call was handled because by this time, I had put gates up in the kitchen doorways so that Mudge could not get in. My children and I huddled on the other side while Mudge pressed against the gate and barked and barked and barked. He was back on his feet, but he clearly wasn't himself and I had no idea if this enormous 135 pound dog that I loved would be dangerous to my children whom I love even more.
The vet assured me that most dogs are not aggressive post-seizure and that the best thing I could do for him was to remain calm and speak quietly to him in a reassuring manner. So, Thomas and Teagan remained in the kitchen, eyes wide and wet, while I stepped over the gate and gently ran my hands over Mudge's body and spoke whatever words came to my tongue while I watched him stagger about the house, stumbling into walls and misjudging corners and small spaces. I called my husband at work and asked him to come home so that we could take him to the vet and have him thoroughly checked out though the vet had told me that probably wasn't necessary because sometimes dogs will have one seizure--just one seizure--and it would never happen again. If only that had been true for Mudge.
And, that's how a four-year war began. The seizures never stopped. We started Mudge on a regimen of phenobarbital given twice daily at even 12 hour intervals. My family was vigilant with the schedule. We planned our day around 8am and 8pm so that Mudge would never miss a dose or even be late if we could help it. I still look at the clock at "meds time" and sometimes catch myself jumping up to head to the kitchen thinking that I'm going to be late. When the phenobarbital didn't control the seizures, we added potassium bromide given at 10pm. For a time the seizures got better, but the medicine made his hind legs so weak that at times he could not get up off the floor without help. He was no longer able to take the lengthy hour and a half walks he once enjoyed. Half an hour was as much as he could endure, but he still loved to get out in hopes that he'd meet someone new today or even just run across an old friend he'd met before.
Of course, the illness meant an end to our dreams of doing therapy work with Mudge. His delightful personality and big heart would only be therapy for us. While we mourned the loss of that dream, we were never disappointed in Mudge. He was still everything I wanted in a dog. He made me laugh everyday and gave the best "Saint hugs" by laying his heavy head on my shoulder as I sat in a chair--his whole body would wriggle from side to side as he swung his massive plumed tail. He spent many days lying on the floor of my office in the church where I work. He was happy to see everyone that came in, but was so obedient that he didn't get up unless he'd been given permission.
He was a wonder to behold with people who had disabilities or who claimed they "didn't like dogs." Mudge never shied away from someone who moved in an unconventional manner. Wheelchairs, walkers, canes, a shuffling gate--those were just clues that he needed to be a little gentler with this soul. Upon meeting my nephews Ben and Joey, his ability to "tune in" to people was more evident than ever. With Ben, a big, healthy, vibrant, animal loving boy of 8, Mudge was playful and his body language said he knew that this one wouldn't be frightened or hurt by his antics. With Joey, a tall, slender boy with Asperger's Syndrome who wasn't sure he liked dogs at all, Mudge was quiet and gently nudged his big head against Joey's hands and legs. He didn't run or jump about as he did with Ben. With a friend from church who doesn't care for dogs due to a bad, and I'm sure terrifying experience, with a dog attack, Mudge stood quietly at my side and didn't approach until the man tentatively reached out and patted him on the head.
No matter how great he was with people, even if a therapy organization had agreed to take us on, I could not run the risk that Mudge would fall over on the floor and have a seizure in front of a child who had his own struggles to worry about. And so, we let that dream die.
The seizures never subsided. A change in medications levels would help for a short time, but the seizures always returned and grew worse and more frequent over time. With the medicine levels as high as they could go, there was a toll to be paid and it was paid by Mudge's liver.
In the last year of his short life, it became necessary to wean him off the phenobarbital and try a new drug, zonisamide. Of course, that meant that he had to take all three drugs--phenobarbital, potassium bromide, and zonisamide--at the same time for a while. At the height of the drug therapy, Mudge was taking 6 zonisamide capsules and 3 phenobarbital tablets twice a day and a liquid dosage of potassium bromide once a day. A side affect of all of them is lethargy and weakness. He was in sad, sad shape. There was a time when he was physically incapable of walking up or down the two short steps in front of our house to go outside. My husband, James, would lift his hindquarters off the floor while I looped a bath towel under his belly to help support him as he walked. Taking him outside became a two person job. When my husband wasn't home to help, Thomas (now 15) would take his place. It became imperative to wean him off the phenobarbital more quickly than we might have otherwise, though there was a risk of rebound seizures that could become so violent that they would result in death.
We never did get him completely off of the phenobarbital. It just wasn't possible. The zonisamide couldn't control the seizures and they became more frequent when the phenobarbital level dipped too low. There was nothing more we could do to spare his liver and so, with the end looming, we resolved to make his life the best that it could be and allow him to just be a dog instead of a patient.
Finally, the toxins that his brain was no longer able to flush out began to poison Mudge's brain. He had small seizures several times a day. He frequently ran into walls and furniture. Most distressing and difficult to watch were the times when he would press his head into a corner and stand that way. Watching my beautiful boy suffer and struggle became more than any of us could bear and it was clear that the path had come to an end.
On October 5, 2012, we took Mudge for a final car ride to see the veterinarian that he'd become attached to over so many visits through the years. We lay him down on a down quilt on the vet's office floor and James, myself, our veterinarian, and a technician surrounded him. To the end, he was a lover. He sat himself down in the vet's lap before obeying my request to lie down on the floor. I watched as the vet emptied the pink syringe into his vein and he drifted away.
I was inconsolable for weeks. I knew in my head what I'd done was right, but there was still such as sense of guilt in my heart. Had I done everything I could? Did he know what was happening on that last day? Was he disappointed in me?
My life without a dog, and I say that as I look at my sweet little Yorkshire Terrier curled in a chair who is now almost 13 but who has never really been my dog, was miserable. I didn't know what to do with my sadness, frustration, or anger. Those were feelings I'd shared with Mudge and we'd walked them out or sat together on the floor until I'd felt better. Where did I put those now? I cried a lot...the corner of my eye actually cracked, chapped by the frequency of my tears.
There was no doubt that as difficult as the journey had been, I had to start a new journey with another Saint Bernard. Because, you see, perhaps that dream of therapy work hadn't really been snuffed out. It had only been set aside while I learned from my life with Mudge. I learned patience, acceptance, and an even deeper unconditional love. Love for Mudge, love for the breed, and love for the dream.
