Four weeks ago, on a Wednesday night, Butterfly vomited white foam until she was empty. We had no idea what set it off. She’d been wheezing for a few days, instead of her regular coughing, but otherwise she was in the pink of health; especially since her hernia surgery two months before. Suddenly she was panting all night on the pillow next to my head. We were able to get her an emergency appointment at the clinic the next day and ended up seeing a doctor we’d never met before. She asked if Butterfly had eaten anything strange and we couldn’t think of anything she’d had access too, so she took an x-ray, and did blood tests, but she couldn’t find any explanation for the vomiting. She didn’t seem especially worried, though. She had the vet techs give Butterfly subcutaneous fluids and anti-nausea meds on the spot, and then sent us home with more meds in liquid form. She said, as we were leaving, that we could come back in if Butterfly vomited again, and then she sent us on our way. I was surprised. I was used to Butterfly’s previous vet, at the same clinic, who was much more thorough. I didn’t know what else should have been done, but it felt like something was missing.
Butterfly didn’t have much of an appetite for the next few days, but she didn’t throw anything up. We managed to get her to eat two or three small pieces of chicken at a time, hiding her pills in those small pieces, because she wasn’t up to eating peanut butter. She wouldn’t even eat her chicken treats. By Monday, though, she was eating more chicken, and even ate a few pieces of kibble, unprompted. So when I heard her retching in the hallway at two am I was surprised, and when I turned on the light to clean up after her and saw a puddle of red, I was terrified. I Googled dogs-vomiting-blood and found what I expected to find – go to the hospital immediately. So I woke up Mom and wrapped Butterfly in a towel and we drove over to the emergency veterinary hospital a few towns away.
A vet tech scooped Butterfly out of my arms as soon as we arrived and took her into the back to be examined. I tried to watch the TV on the wall, but the chipper early morning news anchors got on my nerves quickly. Eventually, two doctors came out to speak with us in the waiting room, a man and a woman. They said that Butterfly was dehydrated and her blood pressure was very low, too low even to take blood for testing, so the first step was to put her on fluids and plump her back up. They asked again if she’d eaten anything strange and we tried to think of anything she could have gotten into, almost a week earlier when the vomiting started in the first place. My first and most persistent fear was that this was all aftermath of Butterfly’s hernia surgery, even though she had healed well and seemed to have bounced back beautifully. I just couldn’t make sense of a life threatening illness coming up out of nowhere. Maybe she got into some dirt, or licked a slug or a splotch of bird poop on the walkway? The female doctor smiled occasionally and took notes. The male doctor seemed to be incapable of making eye contact, but fully capable of giving us worst case scenarios about Miss B not surviving the night. When I asked my follow up questions he answered them like he was taking an oral veterinary school exam, rather than talking to a worried Mom. For the subsequent consultations throughout the night we only met with the female doctor, which was a relief.
By five am we were able to go home for a few hours of rest while Butterfly continued to receive intravenous fluids and wait for the internist to come on shift. Cricket was in a panic when we arrived home, and I took her out to pee immediately so that her shrieks wouldn’t wake the neighbors. As soon as she’d finished her business she raced back inside to see Grandma and attached to her side like Velcro. They were at least able to sleep for a few hours. Me, not so much.
Later in the morning, the internist at the emergency veterinary hospital did an ultrasound and more blood tests on Butterfly, but the findings were still nonspecific. We were allowed to pick Butterfly up around noon, in order to transfer her to her clinic, where we hoped for more personalized, and much less expensive, care. The plan was for her to keep her IV catheter in place and go back on fluids as soon as we arrived at the clinic, but somehow the message got garbled between the hospital and the clinic and we had to sit in the waiting room for two hours, with my panting dog on my lap, her IV catheter bandaged and waiting for a fluid hook up, and the staff behind the desk telling us they had no idea what we were talking about and they were very very busy.
Eventually we were sent into an examination room, to wait again. The expeditor, or maybe just the nicest person on the staff, came in after a while with apologies. He brought us stools to sit on, and water to drink, and even offered coffee and chocolate if we needed it. The vet came in soon after, another doctor we’d never met before. She was a very young woman with long black hair and a piercing over her lip, and she was kind to Miss Butterfly and even laughed at my strained jokes. Butterfly was skinny and listless, and when the doctor tried to stand her on all four feet on the table, she was shaky. The doctor said that an overnight stay would be necessary, and she’d probably have to be there for a number of days, in order to stabilize her symptoms and do more diagnostic tests to see what was causing all of this.
This is when I started wishing I’d invested in a vet tech course, so I could take care of Butterfly at home – administering fluids, cleaning her IV, and doing whatever else necessary. A full-on veterinary medicine degree would seem like overkill, just to take care of my own dogs, but then again, maybe not.
We went home without Butterfly that afternoon, and worried. Cricket was upset. She would only eat really special food (aka anything but kibble) to help manage her anxiety-induced nausea. She spent most of her time attached to Grandma in one way or another, except when I took her out for a walk, during which time she kept turning back to our front door, looking for Grandma.
By the next day, we were told over the phone, by yet another doctor, that Butterfly was able to eat her dog food, and even licked the bowl clean. But she would not be coming home yet, because none of the tests were clarifying the cause of the problem. We were allowed to visit Butterfly at the clinic for a fifteen minute scratchy massage and a few kisses on her head.
We went for another visit with Butterfly on Thursday, after finding out that she still wasn’t ready to come home. This time I had to go after work (internship), still in my dress clothes, starving and exhausted (I have a tendency to skip lunch at work, which is very stupid of me), and then we had to sit on a hard bench for an hour and a half, overwhelmed by the smell of pee. For a few moments I thought I should just leave. What was the point of visiting with Butterfly for a few minutes if we couldn’t take her home? Would she even notice, or care? It was a bitter, apathetic sort of feeling, and it worsened when we finally got to the visiting room, because Butterfly was not herself. She was in self-protective mode, hiding her real self in a far corner the way she’d learned to do growing up at the puppy mill. She almost seemed like a stranger, and I found myself wondering if she even knew who I was. But once I had her in my arms, she was my baby again, and I had to clean out her one waxy ear, check her lumps and bumps, whisper to her, and sing the Jewish prayer for healing to her like a lullaby.
The latest theory was that Butterfly was on too much insulin, creating a rollercoaster reaction in her blood sugar that led to the gastro-intestinal difficulties, so they cut down her insulin to see if that would help. They also gave her anti-biotics and a B-12 shot, just in case.
We went to visit again on Friday and I finally remembered to bring Butterfly’s doggy comb with me. Her tongue was pink, and her muscle strength was much improved, and she let me comb her hair until it shined. But she still wasn’t coming home. I was starting to doubt the clinic in a way I never had before. Why were we talking to different doctors every day? Why couldn’t they figure out what was wrong? I wanted to take Butterfly home, but I also wanted her to be healthy, and those two desires seemed to be in conflict.
When we asked one of the secretaries at the front desk why everything was such a mess, we were told that the clinic was in transition, with some doctors leaving, other doctors arriving and many doctors on vacation. They had new students rotating through, and the office staff was in transition, and they were building a new wing for the cats. None of that information made me feel better, still having to leave without my baby. The apartment was so quiet without Butterfly. She was supposed to be the quiet one; Cricket was the barker. But we were all so anxious and distracted, there wasn’t much playing or joy, or even barking, going on. I almost felt like we were practicing for when we wouldn’t have Butterfly home at all anymore. But I couldn’t think that.
We were finally able to take Butterfly home on Saturday afternoon. By then she’d been away from home for almost five days. Butterfly sat on my lap in the car, but she still seemed distant and not quite herself. I was worried that I’d been wrong to leave her in the clinic for so long, retraumatizing her with memories of her life at the puppy mill. But when we got home and her paws hit the walkway at the back of our building, she lifted her tail, smiled, and began to jog towards our front door. She was herself again and ecstatic to be home.
She raced towards the food bowls as soon as she got inside the apartment and ate a handful of kibble, which she threw up on my bed ten minutes later. I was instantly worried that we’d have to take her back to the clinic, and I really didn’t want to do it. She hated being there. And I hated her being there. She was still lively and energetic and looking everywhere for food, so I tried not to think about any possible complications and fed her one kibble at a time, by hand, and gave her all of her meds in their proper order and crossed my fingers.
With each day, she seemed happier and healthier, and able to tolerate more kibble at each small meal. Her bark was as bit off, kind of high and squeaky, maybe from damage to her throat from all of the vomiting. I went to work on Tuesday morning, confident that Miss Butterfly was on the mend and had overcome whatever had set off the vomiting in the first place. Even her blood sugar seemed to have stabilized, with four blood tests in a row landing in the same range, instead of the ups and downs we’d been used to for years.
Her smiling face greeted me as I came in the door that afternoon and she put up with all of the medications and kibble by kibble feeding with good humor. On our way out for the last walk of the night she coughed a little bit. We’d stopped giving her the medicine for her cough, because she hadn’t been coughing in the hospital or at the clinic and they took it off her list of medications, so I made a note to myself to check with the vet to see if we should add it back in, or wait for her follow up appointment on Saturday. It was such a relief to have her home and acting like her usual self, pausing ever few steps on her walk to listen to the katydids or a low flying plane, and then jogging to catch up with her sister. She was still a little skinny and easily tired, but otherwise she was recovering beautifully.
We went through our usual bedtime routine, with scratchies for Butterfly and an extended period of digging at the end of my bed for Cricket, and then Cricket was off to Mom’s room and Butterfly ambled down her doggy steps to survey her territory and find the perfect sleeping spot.
And then, at six thirty in the morning, Mom brought Butterfly into my room, because she’d heard her making strange noises. Within a shockingly short period of time, stretched out on my bed, Butterfly died. There was nothing I could do, no medicine I could give her, no magical spell to say or song to sing. She was just gone.
I still wake up every morning wondering where she is. The grief still hits me in waves, the bargaining, the denial, the anger, at the doctors but mostly at myself. The reality is that we did everything we knew how to do to keep her alive, and so did her doctors, but she still died. I didn’t have the power to save her, and that’s what sticks with me most, the powerlessness. It’s so hard to accept that there was nothing I could do for her in the last moments of her life, except to be there and witness her last breath.
In Jewish custom, the first stage of morning is a seven day period of intense visiting and sitting with the grief, called Shiva. We made it through that process with the help of the blog and messages of comfort and kindness from strangers and friends and family. The second stage of mourning is called Shloshim and is thirty days of still remaining somewhat separate, but beginning to integrate the loss into everyday life. This is the stage I’m in now. I’m not sure thirty days will be enough, though. It’s going to take a while to accept that all of this is real.
Cricket and Platypus.
rachelmankowitz 
Love and sympathy to you and your family, Rachel…
Thank you.
Just like grieving for a person, grief for an animal who dies never really goes away. It softens and blurs and takes second place to the love we share with those who are still with us, but if we sit quietly, and remember their lives with us, the tears will always come. I have done that, still do that, for so many dogs. I do believe, however, that God loves these creatures because he made them, and they are safe with him. It gives me comfort.
Thank you for that.
I’m so so sorry. 🙁
Thank you.
I still can’t believe she is gone. Feeling powerlessness is beyond awful.
We continue to grieve with you and your family. Thirty days will not be enough.
I know. Thank you for being here with me in spirit.
It’s never easy. My heart’s with you.
Thank you.
Hugs to you all….
Thank you.
Butterfly was loved. She had a wonderful life with you, your mom and her sister, Cricket. And she passed with those she loved right next to her. Love to you, Rachel.
Thank you.
I’m glad Butterfly was home with you in the end.
Hugs from us.
Me too. Thank you.
I am so sorry for your loss.
Thank you.
I am praying for you, your Mom, Cricket and sweet Miss Butterfly wherever she may be. Love to all of you.
Thank you.
so sorry- I know how hard it is, and how it will continue to be. sending a hug
Thank you.
Losing someone that was part of your life, and much loved, is very hard. There are really no words to make it better. You need hugs, and Cricket, and time. Here’s one big virtual hug from me.
Thank you.
We will all miss Butterfly. At least she died at home with her family. Her spirit lives on.
It does. Thank you.
Sending the most ginormous hugs imaginable. So hard to go through all that and then have her die so abruptly. I hope telling the whole story here is some comfort to you.
I had to at least try. Thank you.
Sending hugs and sympathies.
Thank you.
“Like” seems like the wrong response to your powerful story. I was exceedingly saddened by it, especially that Butterfly had to undergo all that discomfort in her last days. But at least she was home with all of you at the end. I am certain that she felt loved and at peace. All doggies should be so fortunate.
They should. Thank you.
Rachel, my thoughts and prayers stay with you and your family in these sorrow filled days.
Thank you.
It’s very hard saying goodbye to a loved one. It is especially hard when it looks like they are getting better. Hugs and continued prayers. How is Cricket and your mom doing?
We are all doing okay. We’re working through it the best we can. Thank you.
Love and energy to you, your mother and Cricket.
Thank you.
Stay strong.
I’m trying.
Rachel, I wish I could lessen the pain of her loss. You did everything you could and I personally think that if she was going to die, it’s much better that she died at home instead of at the vet’s clinic.–She had love around her when she passed and that means so much.
I hope that’s true. Thank you.
Rachel being through a similar event with my African grey parrot while we lived in Hawaii, my heart is with you. I rewrote a poem of mine which was called Butterflies, for your Butterfly. Hope you enjoy it and God bless!
Whenever I see the butterflies flying
I am reminded of your smiling face,
As I see them taking wing into the sky
I feel emotions that are never displaced
For in, my heart also live the butterflies
As they come to life deep within me each day
While I count the different memories of you
Which in my thoughts and dreams daily stay
The brightness of their many vibrant colours
Produce a vivid rainbow deep within my mind
Which fills my heart with such unwavering joy
Allowing me to enjoy them for an endless time
The butterflies will be my deepest treasure
Leaving me never again in life feeling the same
As the peace, they bring to me can’t be measured
For imprinted on their wings each day is your name…Butterfly.
Hugs and blessings Rachel!
Thank you so very much! That is beautiful!
It’s never easy to deal with the loss of a loved one, but the trauma of Butterfly ‘s illness and sudden death surely have an extra sting. Be kind to yourself and let the grief be yours while integrating it into Jewish traditions.
Thank you.
Dearest One, thank you for the sharing of your story. I’m so sincerely sorry for your loss. I was thinking if your sweet butterfly was here what would she say to you? I think she would say ”mama I’m okay. My little body went as far as it could go. The details really don’t matter because I’m in a very good place. I know that you did your most excellent best to help and that’s all any person can ever do. I was so blessed to have that time that I was loved by you and Grandma and Cricket. Please know that nothing is ever lost. That all is well. That we will be together again one day. I love you and please don’t worry”. xo
Did you have a chance to check out the EFT I mentioned to you before? It’s emotional Freedom technique. It literally takes 15 minutes to learn. If you’re too emotionally exhausted to learn it pull up a YouTube video of someone doing the EFT. All you need do is tap Along on your face and do what the person in the video does and it will help. EFT has even helped a lot of veterans with trauma. Helped ordinary people with trauma. It sounds like you’re sure dealing with PTSD right now from what happened. Give this a try and it will help. You won’t forget anything important, it will just help.
Know that I’m thinking about you and your mom and Cricket and sending you so much love today. Love, Cindy and Elizabeth the Beagle
Thank you. I could hear her saying those words.
It’s such a blessing that your Butterfly was home with you when she passed. I think it would have been much worse for you if she had been alone at the hospital. Do your best in this moment to focus on the blessings. If you look back over the years I’m sure you will find so many. Make a blessing list and put down so many happy times and trips and car rides you had sweet Butterfly. xo
Rachel, I am very sorry for your loss. Butterfly was so special. My thoughts are with you.
Thank you very much.
Thank you for sharing your journey with us Rachel … I hope in doing so it helps you to know we are willingly shouldering your grief with you. All of us who have loved and then lost, no matter who or what that loved one was, know how profound the feelings are, and I personally have been transported back to my own feelings of loss through your words. But I also know that there were easier days eventually, but no time clock on when those arrived. Please know that you can continue to rely on your tribe of internet friends and supporters for whatever we can provide virtually – I know I will be here well past the 30-day period!
Thank you very much.
Its heartbreaking. But, at least she was at home with her family when she passed. Take whatever time you need to mourn her loss. I’ve lost beloved dogs before, dogs who were my babies as well, and it’s not easy.
Thank you!
Reading this brought back difficult memories of the night we lost our Memphis. Her illness, which was bloat, came about so suddenly and we felt so helpless. It’s especially difficult dealing with vets you don’t know at an emerg clinic, even if they might be excellent vets. We’re very fortunate to have our usual clinic just down the street – walking distance. They have a small staff – 3 vets and a couple techs, and they’re all good at their jobs and as importantly, really fine, caring individuals.
It’s so difficult to lose a dog. I really feel for you. They manage to insert themselves in every part of your lives. They know all the angles. After all, they spend so much time studying our curious behaviour, getting us all figured out. And they know full well how to bring you joy in the simplest ways.
Peace.
Miss B absolutely had my number, and I didn’t mind at all. Thank you!
I see your still lost over your Butterfly and I understand missing some for years and even decades. I wrote once about my first, a lab named mocha, “I don’t know for sure if there’s a heaven or an afterlife, but I’d like to think so. What I do know for sure is that when I first saw Mocha all those years ago I gave her a little piece of my soul. When I last saw her she gave it back.”
Thank you for that.
you’re welcome
Sometimes, there is nothing that anyone can do. No-one was actually sure what happened to one of mine, some years ago. She was dead when I came home. The vet caring for her thought is might have been an undiagnosed brain tumour. I am so sorry for your loss….
Thank you. It’s so hard to accept being powerless. Mommies are supposed to know everything, right?
I wish all veterinarians could be miracle workers and our pets could live as long as we do. Sigh. There’s so much lost when we love so deeply – and then they are gone. Wishing peace for you, Cricket, and your mom.
Thank you!
I know exactly how you are feeling. It was not your fault, and as you say, you did everything you possibly could. We love our pets like family, they are our children, and when they pass they leave such a massve hole, especially when it’s unexpected or in Butterfly’s case, so extreme. I hope you can take heart that she died at home, in your arms, surrounded by her family and those who loved her. RIP dear Butterfly. ❤ ❤
Thank you!
No matter how hard it is to not have her around anymore I truly believe she left happy in heart knowing she was at home with the all three of you and not in the clinic.
I hope you’re right. Thank you.
The Rainbow Bridge
There is a bridge connecting Heaven and Earth.
It is called the Rainbow Bridge because of all its beautiful colors.
Just this side of the Rainbow Bridge there is a land of meadows,
hills and valleys with lush green grass.
When a beloved pet dies, the pet goes to this place.
There is always food and water and warm spring weather.
The old and frail animals are young again.
Those who were sick, hurt or in pain are made whole again.
There is only one thing missing,
they are not with their special person who loved them so much on earth.
So each day they run and play until the day comes
when one suddenly stops playing and looks up!
The nose twitches! The ears are up!
The eyes are staring and this one runs from the group!
You have been seen and when you and your special friend meet,
you take her in your arms and hug her.
She licks and kisses your face again and again –
and you look once more into the eyes of your best friend and trusting
pet.
Then you cross the Rainbow Bridge together never again to be apart.
I have no idea what to say. But I am thinking of you all.
Thank you!
Dogs who are about to cross the rainbow bridge often have a few days just before their passing where they seem revitalised, bright eyed and taking everything in once more, showing everyone their love and gratitude while their spirit prepares to leave the body. This was Butterfly’s final gift before passing and she used all her strength to give it. So strong was the power of her love that she could give you these few extra days even though her body could no longer carry on. That is something to be very grateful for 💜
That is so comforting! Thank you!
☺💜 xxx
Remember, the thirty days is a guideline. Some need more…a few may need less. You take the time you need. When my aunt lost her beloved Bambi, she couldn’t bear to get another dog…It’s been almost a year, and she just doesn’t feel its right for her. She’s decided her cat will be enough…and I’m sure there are days she still gets up thinking she has to let Bambi the dog out. It’s not an easy journey you will follow, but you will come through.
I will. Miss Butterfly was such a wonderful addition to our family, and I know she’d want to make sure Cricket has a new fluffy butt to lean her head on. It’ll just take some time.
I agree completely with you, Rachel, I believe it might have had to do with her hernia surgery but who knows?? I also wish her other Doctor could magically have appeared. I have a doctor who, because my heart rate is abnormally low, and has always been, is desperate to put a pacemaker. I tell him, “God knows the number of my days,” and I believe this, too, for our dogs. Please be gentle with yourself. Easier said than done.
I’m trying, but I miss her.
I believe they miss us, too, until we can breathe again without it hurting so much. But they are still with us in some form, I think.
Cricket keeps giving me those lickies from her sister. It helps so much.
Thank you for sharing, I can’t imagine how hard it must have been to write this. At least Butterfly died at home with her family around and I’m sure she knew how loved she was. x
Thank you for reading. It helps to share the story with people who understand.
Totally understand, we lost Alfie suddenly in April, there is no pain like it xx
A beautiful and courageous post. Thank you for telling us the details of Butterfly’s last days and the trials you all went through.
Thank you for reading!
Thank you for the very specific details of the vet ordeals. They were traumatic and disorienting for you, and I can certainly see why. The effect was cumulative too, with each visit reinforcing your sense of helplessness. May you heal from those experiences. Thank you for the love you showed Butterfly. Peace.
Thank you!
So difficult. I am so sorry
Thank you.
Thank you so much for sharing this record of Butterfly’s illness. As a non-profit that deals with veterinary emergencies, this was a very interesting read. We can face many frustrations when our pets are critically ill. Inexperienced young vets at 24 hour emergency clinics can be a challenge, as well as unclear diagnoses. Sometimes you never know exactly what the cause of a crisis event was unless you choose to do a necropsy after death. We had a cat with severe gastrointestinal issues. Lymphoma was strongly suspected by our vet, but she could not confirm it 100% while he was living. Sometimes you have to live with uncertainty about cause, but take comfort in knowing that you did the best you could do for your beloved pet.
I’m glad you found it helpful. Thank you.
Thank you for sharing this with us Rachel , you are very brave. I am pleased to hear Butterfly was home when she passed. Sometimes a pet just picks up a last one before they leave us.
Thinking of you HUGS Sheila x
Thank you. I’m glad she was home too.
May tender memories of your precious Butterfly provide soothing comfort and peace for you, your mom and Cricket.
Thank you.
I’m so glad you have this beautiful blog and all the wonderful stories about her!
Thank you so much!
My prayers include your little family these days. Mourning is going to take time, and the loss will continue to hit at unexpected times. I don’t find it shameful to cry or just go through the pain when that occurs. The other night I was watching some sappy movie and thought of my husband, who passed in 2012 and I was once again weeping and feeling the loss. My ‘kids’ bring more sorrow for their loss than any of the humans I’ve lost though. I think the dogs (pets of any kind really) have such a special place in our hearts and souls that their removal is like losing that bit of ourselves. Take care of you. Life is precious and Butterfly brought joy to yours. It’s a worthy memory.
Thank you. She brought so much to my life.
I’m so, so sorry. We are so blessed to have these little furry family members be a part of our lives and I always feel so helpless when they’re sick and I have to say goodbye. Butterfly was incredibly blessed to be a part of your lives and to have lived a happy one. My heart goes out to you – sending cyber hugs and love your way.
Thank you. We love hugs here. Even Cricket has accepted hugs, surprising everyone.
Rachel,
This broke my heart. I’m so sorry.
Tracey
Thank you.