Lydia Seabol Avant.
It was in June 2019, soon after we brought an 8-week-old boxer puppy home that tragedy struck — in a freak accident, I tripped on my husband’s foot and fell hard, face down, on the floor of my kids’ bedroom.
The dog, who we had named Gus, had been my little shadow since we had brought him home, following me wherever I went. And there he was, underneath me, unresponsive. I drove to the emergency veterinarian in my pajamas that night, trying to perform mouth-to-mouth as I drove, constantly rubbing him trying to keep his little heart beating.
The prognosis wasn’t good. If he made it through that first night, he would likely be brain-damaged. And he was — brain-damaged, and blind. His little body with puppy-soft fawn fur laid in the vet’s cage, hooked up to an IV for two weeks.
We prepared our children by telling them we did not know if Gus was going to make it — because that was the truth. But I knew that our family had had too much loss that year, having lost our first boxer to a sudden heart attack at the dog park a few months before, followed by the deaths of my father and grandmother only weeks apart that spring.
Our kids were distraught the first time they visited Gus at the vet after the accident. Gus was awake, but cognitively not normal. I told the kids to prepare, and love on him while they could, just in case things took a turn for the worse.
But then, on another lunch time visit to the vet, I was talking to Gus and saying his name when he wagged his tail. The next visit, he stood up in his cage.
If he was going to fight, I decided I was, too — and it was then that I knew I would do whatever I could to save him. After a few weeks, Gus eventually came home and quickly remembered his way through the doggy door.
He mastered being fed by a syringe, which is how I fed him canned dog food mixed with water — quite messily — until he was almost 6 months old. And through the help of a veterinarian ophthalmologist and too many bottles of prescription eye drops to count — Gus regained his vision.
His brain swelling went down over time, and he became a very normal dog, all except having a paralyzed jaw with a long tongue that hangs out the side of his mouth.
He’s a goofy dog, who loves nothing more than to greet his family first thing in the morning, giving “hugs” and jumping in circles out of excitement. If a family member is intent on doing something — whether it’s reading a book or fixing something in the garage or putting the dishes in the dishwasher, he’s more than likely right in the middle of it, wanting to take part, too. He wants to be a part of whatever the rest of the family is doing, all the time.
And there is his sweet disposition. Maybe it’s the fact that he was so close to death and he became spoiled in those early months with all the attention, but he doesn’t want to be alone. He loves curling up with whoever is on the couch. And if he had a choice, he’d sleep with me in bed, curled up behind the crook of my bent legs. To be honest, I sleep better when he’s there, too.
Over the last 2.5 years, Gus has been our miracle dog. And so we were heartbroken recently to discover that our canine miracle, who will turn 3 in April, is facing another fight. He has cancer — an aggressive form of lymphoma. Right now, he’s still his goofy self, wrestling with his boxer sister Maggie and standing at our front window to bark at whoever walks by our house. But we know his days are numbered. There is no cure for dogs with this kind of lymphoma.
We are devastated.
But with the same determination we had to save his little life soon after the accident, I’m just as determined that his last weeks or months left in this world will be his best. And so we’ve created a “bucket list” for him.
Last weekend, we took him to the dog park and to get a “puppachino” at Starbucks. Another day, we “blow dried” him with the hairdryer and have started doing that daily because he loves it so much. Next weekend, I plan to walk him down to the lake to play, and maybe let him go for a ride in the back of my husband’s truck — me in the back with him.
For as short as his little life as been, it’s been a blessing, for all of us. And so we are going to make the most of whatever time he has left, one bucket list item at a time.
Lydia Seabol Avant
It was in June 2019, soon after we brought an 8-week-old boxer puppy home that tragedy struck — in a freak accident, I tripped on my husband’s foot and fell hard, face down, on the floor of my kids’ bedroom.
The dog, who we had named Gus, had been my little shadow since we had brought him home, following me wherever I went. And there he was, underneath me, unresponsive. I drove to the emergency veterinarian in my pajamas that night, trying to perform mouth-to-mouth as I drove, constantly rubbing him trying to keep his little heart beating.
The prognosis wasn’t good. If he made it through that first night, he would likely be brain-damaged. And he was — brain-damaged, and blind. His little body with puppy-soft fawn fur laid in the vet’s cage, hooked up to an IV for two weeks.
We prepared our children by telling them we did not know if Gus was going to make it — because that was the truth. But I knew that our family had had too much loss that year, having lost our first boxer to a sudden heart attack at the dog park a few months before, followed by the deaths of my father and grandmother only weeks apart that spring.
Our kids were distraught the first time they visited Gus at the vet after the accident. Gus was awake, but cognitively not normal. I told the kids to prepare, and love on him while they could, just in case things took a turn for the worse.
But then, on another lunch time visit to the vet, I was talking to Gus and saying his name when he wagged his tail. The next visit, he stood up in his cage.
If he was going to fight, I decided I was, too — and it was then that I knew I would do whatever I could to save him. After a few weeks, Gus eventually came home and quickly remembered his way through the doggy door.
He mastered being fed by a syringe, which is how I fed him canned dog food mixed with water — quite messily — until he was almost 6 months old. And through the help of a veterinarian ophthalmologist and too many bottles of prescription eye drops to count — Gus regained his vision.
His brain swelling went down over time, and he became a very normal dog, all except having a paralyzed jaw with a long tongue that hangs out the side of his mouth.
He’s a goofy dog, who loves nothing more than to greet his family first thing in the morning, giving “hugs” and jumping in circles out of excitement. If a family member is intent on doing something — whether it’s reading a book or fixing something in the garage or putting the dishes in the dishwasher, he’s more than likely right in the middle of it, wanting to take part, too. He wants to be a part of whatever the rest of the family is doing, all the time.
And there is his sweet disposition. Maybe it’s the fact that he was so close to death and he became spoiled in those early months with all the attention, but he doesn’t want to be alone. He loves curling up with whoever is on the couch. And if he had a choice, he’d sleep with me in bed, curled up behind the crook of my bent legs. To be honest, I sleep better when he’s there, too.
Over the last 2.5 years, Gus has been our miracle dog. And so we were heartbroken recently to discover that our canine miracle, who will turn 3 in April, is facing another fight. He has cancer — an aggressive form of lymphoma. Right now, he’s still his goofy self, wrestling with his boxer sister Maggie and standing at our front window to bark at whoever walks by our house. But we know his days are numbered. There is no cure for dogs with this kind of lymphoma.
We are devastated.
But with the same determination we had to save his little life soon after the accident, I’m just as determined that his last weeks or months left in this world will be his best. And so we’ve created a “bucket list” for him.
Last weekend, we took him to the dog park and to get a “puppachino” at Starbucks. Another day, we “blow dried” him with the hairdryer and have started doing that daily because he loves it so much. Next weekend, I plan to walk him down to the lake to play, and maybe let him go for a ride in the back of my husband’s truck — me in the back with him.
For as short as his little life as been, it’s been a blessing, for all of us. And so we are going to make the most of whatever time he has left, one bucket list item at a time.
Lydia Seabol Avant
