The Harlan Chronicles 2

Harlan's Stash
It took three neighborhood volunteers to stuff Harlan snug in his crate and I was quite content and proud of myself. After all, for someone who was as afraid of dogs as I was, we seemed to be getting along just fine. Harlan, cozy in his crate, looking every bit the pill bug and I, completely oblivious to all things canine.

It wasn’t long into this bliss that I detected a foul odor coming from the den. The question about him being housebroken was answered. The good news was that he didn’t relieve himself on my carpet, the bad news was that he wouldn’t come out of his crate. I tried coaxing, leashing, demanding him to come out. No Luck. He stayed in the crate. Refusing to eat or drink (who could blame him) and remaining in the crate was just not an option. With a little help from my friends, we picked up the crate with all 50 lbs of Harlan in it and brought him into the backyard.

After a moderate struggle we were able to get him out of the crate, hose him down and create a new home for him in the backyard garage. A quilt was placed in the corner of the garage and a side door was propped open so that Harlan could come and go as he pleased. Harlan was home.

Sometimes I would watch Harlan by peeking out of my kitchen window where I had an unobstructed view of him and would notice that he would only come out of his garage at night.

Although I would routinely give him treats, he would never take them from me nor would I see him eating them. He would not eat his food or drink water if I was around. He never made eye contact, in fact he would turn his head away from me when I approached. He didn’t bark or growl. Everyday was spent in silence, staring, jaw clenched. If I tried to pet him or scratch his ears, he would visibly tremble. Sure, friends and family would comment on my basket-case of a dog but I being the proud new parent, was unflappable.

A week had passed since I brought Harlan home and I decided that it was time for me to change his bedding. Bravely walking into his garage, I clipped the leash onto his collar and proceeded to drag him out of the garage and tie him to a tree.

When I picked up Harlan’s quilt, I was surprised to see that he had stashed all of his doggie treats under it. Interestingly, I remembered learning somewhere that neglected and abused children will hoard food for fear that they will not be fed again.

It was then and there that I realized Harlan was a soul that needed love, food and a safe place to live. So what if he wasn’t “normal”? Do parents with afflicted children return them? No. They deal with it. Harlan and I would be together for a long time.

Part 3 The Doggie Shrink

The Harlan Chronicles 8

Harlan gets $ickThirteen years had passed since Harlan and I first crossed paths. He was quite a bit slower now and didn’t have the reflexes to ‘bolt’ anymore. His vision was failing and the once black fur on his face had turned white. Harlan had mellowed with age and didn’t seem to mind a stranger’s touch. I knew it was just a matter of time before Harlan would go to the big dog park in the sky but he seemed healthy and happy for now.

Then Harlan became increasingly short of breath. The veterinarian diagnosed him with enlarged heart, Congestive Heart Failure and Atrial Fibrillation. He suggested consulting with a Canine Cardiologist and felt that an Echocardiogram and Thoracentesis should be done.

Ka Ching.

I may have coughed up a lot of money for the ‘Doggie-Shrink’ but I was older and wiser now. This was going to cost a lot more than that. I told the vet that at Harlan's age, I wanted him to receive “medical management” (drugs) only. Harlan stayed overnight at the animal hospital in an oxygen cage. He received Lasix, Digoxin and Vasotec intraveneously and bounced back quite nicely. Upon checking out the vet’s bill, I expected it to be high but a thirty-day supply of oral Lasix, Digoxin and Vasotec for $120.00? As grateful as I was to the vet for curing Harlan, I was equally miffed with him about the drug charge.

When I returned to work, I asked one of the ER Doctors to write the same prescriptions for “Harlan Spotswood”at my address.

I wasn’t sure if I would get hassled by the (people) pharmacy staff if they were made aware that prescriptions were for a dog and I didn't want to take any chances, so I lied.

When I submitted the prescriptions, the nice lady behind the counter asked for “Mr Spotswood’s age, date of birth and insurance”.

I quickly tried to calculate ‘dog years’, but just as fast, I gave up and said “He’s 80”.

Harlan’s date of birth? Hmmmm. How about Valentine’s Day? “February 14th…can you help me figure out the year?” I asked smiling. She was happy to.

Insurance? I told her he was not insured. She then asked about Medicaid. Think fast. “Oh, he is my uncle from Canada, we’ll take care of the cost” I said. “Your prescriptions will be ready in one hour” she said. Dodged a bullet.

Oh, and the total cost of the prescriptions? $15.00.

Part 9  Harlan's End

The Harlan Chronicles 9

Harlan's End
Harlan slept a lot. He was too weak to walk very far and spent many hours in his bed. Frequently, before sunset Mr. Something would carry him to the car, drive him to the park, then carry him out to a quiet, grassy area where he could just ‘be’.

On one hand, it was really comforting to be able to have Harlan’s head rest on my lap while we hung out at the park in the sunset but on the other hand, I knew he couldn’t resist even if he wanted to.
We would stay until the sun went down and then carry Harlan back to the car again and go home.

Over the course of a few months, the medicines that Harlan was on did not seem to be working as well. His health was declining and he was becoming sleepier and weaker.

As I was not experienced in ‘end of life’ issues for dogs, Harlan and I returned to the animal clinic. I had a few questions…”Is he suffering?”

The vet’s answer would determine as to whether or not I would “put him down”. She didn’t think Harlan was in any distress, “just weak”. "Was Harlan was still eating, drinking and going potty?” He was. Seemingly pleased with my response, she said, “when any of those factors change, Harlan should be reassessed”.

My next question was the most difficult. “What do I do when he dies?” She understood my question and assured me that I could have Animal Control pick him up from my house where he would be brought to a group animal crematorium or I could bring Harlan to the clinic where they would take care of him personally and I would receive his ashes a few weeks later.

I just couldn’t allow myself to consider the Animal Control option. Harlan had become too precious.

It was a beautiful, sunny autumn morning. Mr. Something had come home from the Fire Station and gave Harlan a pork chop. After eating, Harlan walked into the family room and lay down on the floor.

He was gone.

What a life. What a dog.

But, my life with Harlan was not quite over...

Part 10  Harlan's Finale