Eight
Tommy sat and waited alone in the quiet and cold examination room that Dr. Finney brought him in with Artie. She had calmed Artie down by giving him a small dosage of a sedative so that she could draw blood from him and take him into the room next door for x-rays.
Across from Tommy was Dr. Finney’s gray desk where she had a coffee mug that said “Life is better with dogs.” Photographs of Dr. Finney’s patients were taped along a small shelf on top of the desk: a wiry dachshund in a dog-carrier backpack worn by a pretty girl smiling outside in a park; a golden retriever holding on to a tennis ball that you could tell it loved; an Australian cattle dog, with its unmistakable markings, enjoying life and looking right into the camera, tongue out and right up to the lens.
Tommy thought he had seen that cattle dog around town once before. He was wondering what happened to these animals when the door suddenly opened and Dr. Finney came back into the room. She pushed in a metal table with wheels in front of her. Artie was on it, wrapped in a blanket. His bandana was still tied securely around his neck.
“Here he comes,” she said, in a playful voice, the kind doctors must practice to try to lighten stressful situations.
“Is he going to be okay? What’s wrong?” Tommy asked.
Artie didn’t look like he was going to be okay. Luckily that was mostly because of the sedative that caused him to become groggy and half asleep.
Dr. Finney stopped wheeling the table and let out a huff. She picked a clipboard up off her desk, held it against her chest, and looked at Tommy.
“Tom, how long have you had Artie?” she asked.
“Well, I’ve always had him,” Tommy answered. “We’re the same age, thirteen.”
“And a lot has happened to you since you’ve been born, right? You’ve grown up quite a bit since then. You’re not the same little kid you used to be.”
“Yeah, I guess so. . . . ”
“Think about all of the growing you’ve done in those thirteen years, and multiply that by, let’s say, roughly five. That’s how much growing up Artie has done during that time,” she said, taking a seat and getting at eye level with Tommy. “Dogs age faster than we do, Tom, and I’m sure you already knew that. So, I’m also sure it’s not a big surprise when I tell you that Artie is well into his senior years, which means things are starting to break down on him.”
“Break down?” Tommy asked. A sinking feeling of dread pulled at Tommy’s insides.
“His blood tests and the x-rays show that his kidneys are beginning to fail,” she said, quick and to the point. “At his age, there isn’t much we can do other than give him medication. It won’t heal him, but it will help with the blood flow to and from the kidneys, prolonging his life and helping to make him more comfortable.”
Tommy bit the inside of his lip. He wasn’t going to cry, not here at least, but the Arms of Pain were slowly wrapping tightly around him and their partner in crime, the Wall of Time, had come out of nowhere and Tommy had run smack into it, knocking him off his feet. It was that same wall that only appears out of nowhere a few times in your life, telling you that it’s time to pay up, no matter if you’re ready to or not. There’s no way around it.
Tommy looked over at Artie laying on the metal table between him and Dr. Finney. His eyes were fully opened now and he was alert, with a scared expression that hurt Tommy’s heart to see.
“How long does he have?” Tommy finally found the courage to ask, beginning to feel a knot in his throat.
“You should know this is late-stage kidney failure. The medication I’ll give you will help for now, however . . . ” Dr. Finney trailed off and gave him a look he could read without the help of her words. There was a hint of compassion behind that look that Tommy wasn’t used to seeing from Dr. Finney. Like most doctors, those for people and animals, Dr. Finney usually stayed cold and professional.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “He doesn’t have long.”
“Is there anything else I can do? There has to be.”
“Thirteen years is a long time,” Dr. Finney said. “Sometimes they can hold on for longer, but once they start getting into their teens it becomes just a matter of luck. Some dogs have it and some dogs don’t.”
She stood back up.
“If we give him fluid injections that might help, too. They’ll also help stabilize his kidneys,” she said. “Eventually, though, he’s going to begin losing weight and his quality of life won’t be the same—he won’t be the same—and you’ll have to make a decision. For now, all you can do is take care of him the best you can, while you can.”
Tommy nodded.
He walked over to Artie, who he could tell couldn’t wait to go home, and gave him a big hug.