Twelve (almost) years isn't long enough (Part I)

I knew I wasn't going to have him forever, but somehow, I'd always assumed that I'd have Bento around for at least 15 years or so. Bento was a (relatively) small dog (but a gigantor shih tzu.  Somehow I don't think they're suppose to be 17 pounds) - and our family's friend little poodle lived to be 19, so the expectation of him living until he's at least 15 isn't that unreasonable, right?

Sadly, my Bento didn't have that long with us.  Bento passed away at 12:44 pm on Saturday, July 29, 2014 at home, on his own bed surrounded by his family.  I suppose that's the most any of us could hope for when we leave this world - to slip away while in our own beds in the midst of those we love the most.  Bento passed about a month shy of his 12th birthday - and though that's just too soon for me, I'm sure I would feel the same way if he had passed away at 19 years of age.

He was diagnosed with kidney failure on May 29th of this year.  The vet told us that if we brought him in to be hooked up to an IV every day, he may last two weeks.  Because Bento hates the vet's office (the horrors of being neutered at a year old and stomach surgery at 8 still lingers in his memory) and they said they could only extend his life by days if he spent what little time he had left in a place he was terrified of and hated - we said no thanks.  And we took him home so he could pass on at home.  My Bento lasted 8 week on his own.  We gave him daily doses of Reglan to help combat his nausea and injected sq fluids into him every two days.  Slowly as time went by his bad days outnumbered his good ones.  Though our fondest hope was for him to just leave peacefully in his sleep - it wasn't so.  On a very good day, he'd ask for and eat some food (usually chicken.  He lurves chicken) and be able to drink some water out of his bowl on his own.  He may walk a bit - on meds he wouldn't lose his balance and fall over - and he'd enjoy his daily walks (by walks I mean I - or my parents - would walk and he would be pushed on a stroller).  On an average day he wouldn't ask for food - instead he'd spend all day laying quietly in one of his numerous beds.  We would have to feed him porridge (pureed rice and chicken breast) and water through the hundreds of syringes I purchased from Amazon.  He would be listless and boneless when we picked him up.  Sometimes his eyes would look hazy and unfocused - but he would lay quietly and while he had no energy, it wouldn't seem so bad.  He didn't have to play with me for me to love him or want his company - just his presence, as lethargic as he was - was enough.  But then there were the bad days.  The days when he was in such discomfort he couldn't lay still, stumbling from one bed to another - often falling over and hitting furniture.  Days when his little heart seemed to beat out of his chest, or when he would pant laboriously to breathe.  Days when he'd lose control of his bladder and pee on himself.  When he'd throw up,  or the worst case - when he was disoriented, confused and scared and didn't seem to know who we were.  Sometimes he'd seize and his little body would shake with spasms.  It's because of these bad days that we made the difficult decision to say goodbye to him.  This has been the hardest thing I've ever had to do.   

Bento may not have lived as long a life as many other dogs or as I would have liked, but his time here was filled to the brim - his cup overfloweth.  From the moment we brought him home, he was spoiled, coddled and loved.  His toy collection rivaled that of Mattel, he had a wardrobe a fashionista would envy (okay, so he wasn't so hot on the wardrobe), and he traveled further and to more places than most people have.  Even to places where they were doggist and we had to sneak him into hotels.  Bastards.

With that said, I wanted to take a look back at his life.  

Bento came into our lives on November 2, 2002.  Sadly, his beginnings were humble because we first saw him outside the shopping center of the now defunct Hong Kong Supermarket in Rowland Heights.  So despite his absolute conviction that he was a very fancy dog - he was in fact purchased outside a supermarket.  No, not to eat (don't be racist like that), but a pet store rented some space there during the weekends to display some of their wares because the place gets so much foot traffic.  

photo appropriated from the internets

He was in the back, so I didn't even notice him - I was looking at a little Pomeranian/chihuahua puppy who was excitedly greeting passerbys.  My mom thought the little Pom mix was too yappy and overly excited and she started wandering towards the back cages.  It was in one of these back cages that my Bento was found.  He was soooo tiny - less than two pounds - and he was so scared, huddling in the back corner trying to press against the body of the chow chow in the next cage.  He had these bright little eyes and this little tiny tail...and he wasn't yappy.  We don't like yappy.  After begging my mom (this may or may not have included some shameful tears) I was the proud possessor of a shih tzu puppy.  Except that I knew nothing about shih tzus.  Just that this one currently sitting inside a cardboard box on my lap was cute.

see?

Bento's first Thanksgiving

Bento's first Christmas

Bento grew at a rate of a pound a week until he hit about 12 pounds.  Then, because he was a fat ass who liked to eat and whom we liked to spoil, he ended up fluctuating between 15 to 17 pounds for most of his adult life.  He was so tubby we called him "Fatty" as a nickname - and we would squeeze his fat little thighs and joke that if anyone tried to cook him, they'd just end up with a pot of lard.

Bento at 6 months.  Note quite in the fullness of his heavyset days yet

Bento was a very stylish dog.  If by stylish you mean wrestled into way too many outfits against his will during his twelve years.

I'm obsessed with dog PJ's, so poor Bento had to put up with me stuffing his fat ass into little PJ's all the time.

cutest prisoner evah!

Then we'd have polo shirts.  I thought they were so cute I kept buying them - in blue and red (Clippers colors), as well as purple (to represent the Lakers since my brother's a die hard fan).  He also had a cute sunny yellow one we never took photos of.  Hmm...

Then there's this awesome little tank top he wore all the time I got for him on sale at Sogos.  Hell, I don't have anything from Sogos.  On sale or not.  

And then there were the kitschy outfits we thought were awesomely tacky that he didn't wear very much.  (thank you very much Raymond, for the very expensive lion outfit I had to pay for that he refused to wear)

night market cheapo Mickey print cheongsam with man purse attached.  Awesomely fobby!

And then there were the sweaters.  Pretty sweaters.  Ugly sweaters (some of them deliberate.  I mean, they don't call them ugly Christmas sweaters for nothing).  And sweaters hand knit by mom.

a hoodie counts, right?

Not only did he have cute little sweaters, mom hand knit him some as well.  He did like chewing on those little gold buttons...

And then his jackets (I'm pretty sure he has more too...)

And not to mention his eyewear.

It's time

We scheduled his appointment with the mobile vet for 2pm tomorrow.  It's by chance he'll have the same memorial day as my grandpa who passed away 19 years ago on July 23.

There was a lot of thought and consideration that went into our decision.  But that's not to say it's not heartbreaking or that we don't experience doubt when we see a momentary spark - like when he asked for food in the middle of the night.  Taking a step back and looking at the big picture though - he's barely mobile - he walks sideways and stumbles, and that's when he's able to climb out of bed.  His little face seems so tired and exhausted.  Sometimes he labors to breathe.  He lost control of his bladder yesterday and peed on himself - something he's never done before - and he kept falling down when he needed to poop because his little legs are so weak they can't support him anymore.

It hurts to see him like this,  but the thought of life after him sends me spiraling into an emotional breakdown. Yes, other people lose more. Yes, other people are hit by massive and unfair losses - like that of their parents, or their child(ren) or their spouse. Yes, I know that those people scoff at my grief in the face of losing my dog.  But those bitches aren't me, so I don't give a rat's ass what they think.  They're entitled to their grief and I'm entitled to mine.  As I said - grief is relative and it's fluid.  I've never been in a position to face great loss, so perhaps my sheltered existence is what makes this seem like such a big deal.

But Bento has been an integral part of our family for over a decade.  He's brought us so much joy, laughter, love, companionship, loyalty, fun, and memories.  I hope we gave as much to him as he brought to us.

He yelped today.

Today Bento yelped in pain.  Three times.  The first time was around 7pm when I picked him up to feed him his medication.  The second time was a few hours later when my dad tried to feed him some water.  The third time was twenty minutes ago in the backyard when my mom picked him up.  We looked at each other and didn't say anything for a minute.  We both know that the end is barreling down on us whether we're ready for it or not.  We had agreed from the outset that once Bento was suffering we'd know it was time to say goodbye to him.  Poor Bento hasn't felt well in months, but has courageously coped with his failing body, forced feedings, medication, and getting jabbed by a big ass needle every other day for his sq fluids.   He's good naturedly put up with our fussing over him, crying over him, and cuddling him and singing silly songs to him for the last month and a half.  Is it his time to go?  Is he ready to go?  That's not a call I want to make.

Today I saw a link on Facebook to a blog entry detailing a dog's last day entitled I Died Today.  It was a moving tribute to Duke, who had already survived a bout with cancer, amputation, and chemo.  When it came back and they were out of options, a friend of the family documented his last day.  I sobbed. Like a baby.  A big stupid baby.  It was heartbreaking, horribly so - especially when I know that we'll be following the same path in the near future. 

Bento had a horrible Friday night - tremors, rapid heartbeat, and hours of shallow panting.  But he had such a good day yesterday.  We went to my cousin's place in San Diego and Bento was in such a good mood from all the people and activity.  He left his bed several times to play at our feet and was fussed over and petted and coddled.  He spent a long time with my dad on the chaise lounge facing the Pacific taking in the glorious view and fiery sunset.  He had a very good day - long and exhausting, but good.  He slept deep and well for the first time in awhile. 

This morning Raymond called and skyped with us for almost an hour, a lot of it looking at Bento and talking to him.  This may be the last time he talks to Bento.  I don't know how much longer Bento can hold on, and honestly, I don't want him to spend weeks or months (or even days) wallowing in misery and pain.  I think these next few days are it.  My dad is still reluctant to euthanize, but if it's clear he's hurting, it's a decision we'll have to make.