Quite some time ago, I adopted a young Weimaraner who already had his
AKC registered name of: Dusty Velvet VIII. My Dusty-dog, to which I
affectionately called him, lived for 12 long and wonderful years.
He had been my buddy and best friend through good times and bad. Playing at the lake or tennis ball in the yard... and sometimes - in the early years, we ate ramen noodles together. Sometimes out of the same bowl!
As we grew together times got better. We ate quality food, and went to nice places. I gave whatever I could to my Dusty. He gave me a friendship - no, a kinship that I’ve never known.
In September of 2010, he died in my arms of gastric torsion. He’d had several bouts before that were recovered with quick doses of semethicone. His vet had already warned me years before that this problem, once encountered, would happen again and again... and eventually be fatal. There are emergency surgical procedures, but they are very costly and may not stop the eminent result. Depending on the resource you read, you’ll find the life expectancy of a Weimaraner to be anywhere from 9 to 13 years. Most common numbers seem to be 10 to 12. My best friend lived to 12... right to the top of the average.
When he died, my friend Melissa was very understanding and affectionate and helped me handle Dusty’s remains. I cried on her shoulder as I told her how I saw him take his last breath and struggle for more. I told her of how I talked to him and told him what a good boy he was. How I held my head against his chest until I couldn’t hear his heart beat any longer. How I poured my tears on him and eventually pulled the sheet over his head.
All the semethicone in the world wasn’t enough to save him that night. It happened so fast an emergency vet would only have been able to deny him of dieing at home.
Melissa helped me carry his body the the local pet crematorium, and let me cry more on her shoulder as he was carried from her car.
That night, Melissa stayed with me. But she left early in the morning - before I woke up. I later learned that she left because she heard Dusty drinking from his water bucket.
Before I moved away from Tulsa, I heard him shake his head and his big, long ears slapping against his head. I heard him snort and sigh. I felt him curl on my bed beside me. There were countless other times I was aware of his presence.
I’ve been in the Atlanta area for nearly six months now. On Friday night, waning gibbous, 11-11-11, he made a very big visit. I don’t know if the day of the week, the moon phase, or the numerology has anything to do with anything. But I know what I felt.
I was watching some mundane sitcom, then I was suddenly overwhelmed with very strong memories of Dusty’s dieing moments. I urged myself to remember the good times: snuggling on the couch or bed, throwing the tennis ball, throwing the frisbee, playing keep-away, swimming at the lake... talking to him when I’d had a particularly good or bad day.
I’ve felt his presence many times in the last year. But Friday was different. I knew he was here. I could feel him in the room. As I lay in bed watching a mundane sitcom, I patted the comforter beside me and said “Come on!”. I turned my attention back to the TV, but then I could smell his musk. He was there. He was here. Lying next to me. Wanting noting more than a scratch on the ear and a muzzle against my cheek.
I talked to him and held on for what I could. I could feel his adoration. I could feel his love. His energy.
I’m no longer worried about losing my Dusty-dog. He’s not lost at all. He’s right by my side no matter where I go. As he has always been.
I Love You, Dusty Velvet.
He had been my buddy and best friend through good times and bad. Playing at the lake or tennis ball in the yard... and sometimes - in the early years, we ate ramen noodles together. Sometimes out of the same bowl!
As we grew together times got better. We ate quality food, and went to nice places. I gave whatever I could to my Dusty. He gave me a friendship - no, a kinship that I’ve never known.
In September of 2010, he died in my arms of gastric torsion. He’d had several bouts before that were recovered with quick doses of semethicone. His vet had already warned me years before that this problem, once encountered, would happen again and again... and eventually be fatal. There are emergency surgical procedures, but they are very costly and may not stop the eminent result. Depending on the resource you read, you’ll find the life expectancy of a Weimaraner to be anywhere from 9 to 13 years. Most common numbers seem to be 10 to 12. My best friend lived to 12... right to the top of the average.
When he died, my friend Melissa was very understanding and affectionate and helped me handle Dusty’s remains. I cried on her shoulder as I told her how I saw him take his last breath and struggle for more. I told her of how I talked to him and told him what a good boy he was. How I held my head against his chest until I couldn’t hear his heart beat any longer. How I poured my tears on him and eventually pulled the sheet over his head.
All the semethicone in the world wasn’t enough to save him that night. It happened so fast an emergency vet would only have been able to deny him of dieing at home.
Melissa helped me carry his body the the local pet crematorium, and let me cry more on her shoulder as he was carried from her car.
That night, Melissa stayed with me. But she left early in the morning - before I woke up. I later learned that she left because she heard Dusty drinking from his water bucket.
Before I moved away from Tulsa, I heard him shake his head and his big, long ears slapping against his head. I heard him snort and sigh. I felt him curl on my bed beside me. There were countless other times I was aware of his presence.
I’ve been in the Atlanta area for nearly six months now. On Friday night, waning gibbous, 11-11-11, he made a very big visit. I don’t know if the day of the week, the moon phase, or the numerology has anything to do with anything. But I know what I felt.
I was watching some mundane sitcom, then I was suddenly overwhelmed with very strong memories of Dusty’s dieing moments. I urged myself to remember the good times: snuggling on the couch or bed, throwing the tennis ball, throwing the frisbee, playing keep-away, swimming at the lake... talking to him when I’d had a particularly good or bad day.
I’ve felt his presence many times in the last year. But Friday was different. I knew he was here. I could feel him in the room. As I lay in bed watching a mundane sitcom, I patted the comforter beside me and said “Come on!”. I turned my attention back to the TV, but then I could smell his musk. He was there. He was here. Lying next to me. Wanting noting more than a scratch on the ear and a muzzle against my cheek.
I talked to him and held on for what I could. I could feel his adoration. I could feel his love. His energy.
I’m no longer worried about losing my Dusty-dog. He’s not lost at all. He’s right by my side no matter where I go. As he has always been.
I Love You, Dusty Velvet.
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