Along the Way

Long the Way A Death in the Family

When Mr. Fritz, our little brown poodle, died, my wife, Gladys, and I were inconsolable. He was "our little boy" for 12 years. Then, in a terrible second of time, he was gone.

No longer would he follow us from room to room or wait for a scrap from the table while we ate. No longer would he jump into bed with us or wake us when it was time to get up. No longer would he sit quietly and stare at us when he wanted to go out into the yard. No longer would he lie on the couch with his head propped up on the arm, while looking sleepily at us as we sat watching television.

No longer would we hear him cry when we left the house or watch him dance around our feet and bark happily when we returned.

Now he's gone out of our lives, and we may never come to grips with that. Because whatever we do, his spirit is there. Wherever we look, there he is.

Mr. Fritz joined our little family as a puppy, given to us by our daughter and son-inlaw. His father, unfortunately, had epilepsy, and our little guy inherited it. As a result, from his earliest days he would be on medication. Thankfully, those times when the disease struck, the trembling lasted for only A few moments. We'd always pick him up and hold him in our laps while we tried to comfort him.

His first day with us almost turned out to be a disaster. We thought that he'd gotten out the gate and ambled off. For hours we hunted the neighborhood, thinking he'd dropped off to sleep somewhere. But nothing. He'd seemed to have just vanished.

We finally gave up and returned home.

My wife and I were two of the saddest people in the world when we entered the house. It was then-miracle of miracles! - that he came shambling into the room. We discovered later that the little guy had fallen asleep earlier in our front closet - where we swear we'd looked when we searched the house for him.

Year followed year, and, one daysuddenly - he was 12 years old. Little had changed in our lives: we still worked every day and waited for weekends, went on vacations in our backyard, visited the kids in their new home, and grew older - and fatter - together.

Then one day, he started to cough.

We took him to our veterinarian. After several X-rays and a consultation with a vet heart specialist on staff, the conclusion was that Fritz had either an enlarged heart that was pressing on his windpipe or a growth of some kind. Medication was recommended.

Slowly he began to improve. Then, some weeks later, the vet changed the medication. And again little Fritz began to cough. Mildly at first. But since the vet had not said the condition was life-threatening, we didn't worry overmuch and just waited and watched, hoping for improvement.

In mid-December, after about a week on the new regime, our little furry friend began to pace slowly about the house. He did not want to eat even his favorite snacks - and each time he tried to lie down, he'd cough.

Since it was a Sunday, we couldn't reach our vet. We decided to take Mr. Fritz to his office early the next morning.

We didn't know it, but it was already too late.

About 10 o'clock in the evening, Gladys went into another room for a moment, leaving me in the family room. Mr. Fritz followed her, as he normally did. Then, after gazing soulfully at her for a brief moment, he turned, lay down on a throw rug, and died.

Gladys, panic-stricken, called out to "Richard, I think Fritzy just died!"

I rushed in, tears already running down my face, yelling, "No! Not Mr. Fritz!" I knelt down beside his limp body and immediately began CPR. After a minute or two, while Gladys and I both babbled uselessly, I felt his heart begin to beat, and he made a choking sound.

"His heart is beating!" I cried out. "Hurry, get the car started; we'll take him to the emergency hospital."

It was our only hope. While the car raced down the quiet streets, I once more started rapidly massaging his chest. But, after long panicky moments of trying to massage life back into his little body, while Gladys, choking back a cry, kept her foot pressed hard against the gas pedal, I stopped.

I picked up the little guy and ran to the car that Gladys had waiting with the motor roaring. I kept my hand over his heart to make sure he was still alive. For several minutes I could feel it pumping weakly. Then nothing.

"It's no use, Glad," I gasped, choking with emotion, "he's gone."

Through eyes blurred with tears, Gladys pulled the car over to the side of the street, and we both sat there bawling like little children.

Later that same night, we buried him. And heartbroken and full of grief said our last goodbyes.