Teva—A Tribute to a Wonderful Dog

"Hell is finding someone to love / And I can't see you again."

—Japanese Breakfast, "In Hell"

It's 1:30 p.m. on November 13, 2023. Just 24 hours ago, I had finished taking my 7-year-old pit bull Teva for a ride along I-76 just northeast of Denver. On a lark, I decided to take her to her favorite dog park for a walk around a lake before we headed home. She traipsed around the lake at a languid pace, stopping to chew on whatever green reeds were sticking out of the lake; in mid-November in Denver, those are few and far between, so she was happy to find them.

But toward the end of her walk, I noticed her starting to limp, then drag her right back leg on the ground behind her. She began moving more slowly, bewildered at what was happening and looking to me for help. But I was equally bewildered. It resembled her limping from a leg surgery she'd had at one point, but this seemed worse. When we finally got to the dog park entrance, I realized I had to pick her up and carry her to the car. Yay for me lifting weights and for Teva being a manageable 50 pounds.

When I got home, I had to lift her out of the car again and back inside. She could barely move her lower body; her left leg was doing most of the work. Though I placed her on her bed in the den, she soon started moving toward the door to the back patio. I went with her, then helped carry her down the stairs.

Teva dragged her body over near some trees, then halfway kneeled, like she was trying to pee. But nothing happened. She continued dragging herself around the wood mulch and weed-scattered ground, trying in vain to get comfortable. Finally, I lifted her rear legs as we both walked back to the smooth concrete patio. She laid down and rested, with me beside her. It was a beautiful, warm, cloudless, sunny afternoon with the gentlest of breezes. We stayed there for a few minutes, her head on my thigh as I subconsciously felt this was an important moment to remember.

Then my logical brain came to: She cannot urinate. This is a medical emergency. I called Teva's veterinarian and told her what had happened. After another call to my partner to let him know, I picked up Teva, brought her through the kitchen, through the garage door, and into the car. I ran back inside to get my keys and wallet, then flew to the car to reassure Teva and drive to the vet's office in Loveland, about 45 minutes away. And in the back of my mind, almost imperceptibly, came a flash of a thought: This may be the last time Teva is ever home again.

Fall 2022/Winter 2023

On October 12, 2022, I adopted Teva from a local shelter. She was a classic blue pit bull, with a dark gray coat that turned white on her torso, her paws, and around her nose and chin. She also had a prodigious tongue, a right paw that bent outwards like Scooby-Doo, and some of the most captivatingly gorgeous and wise brown eyes I had ever seen. Teva had been termed a stray, but once I adopted her, it quickly became apparent that she'd had a good previous owner. She knew her name and understood commands like sit, stay, and my favorite one, kennel. (Sometimes it's good to tell a dog to go to their safe place to relax while you work. Makes you both happy.)

Teva was also quiet—at first—but soon found her voice, to some consternation of mine, as sometimes she would bark incessantly for no explainable reason. I figured she saw a dust mote floating in the air, or noticed a tree shadow move behind the front door blinds as the wind blew. At worst, I began to doubt my skills as a dog daddy and my ability to deal with her barking spells. One particular spell got so bad that I had to lie down with her, give in to the moment, and realize that she needed me more than I needed to do whatever work was calling me at the time. We laid there for at least an hour. That act of surrender was vital; after that point, she trusted me to be there for her. I can't say her barking spells decreased that much, but my ability to deal with them with patience, love, and an occasional sense of humor grew significantly.

Teva always wanted to stay by my side, whether I walked around the corner or took an hours-long drive into the mountains. I did have certain boundaries up, though: bathroom time was mine alone, and she had her bed while I had mine (at first). Otherwise, I loved cuddling with her, and eventually, I allowed her on the couch while we watched movies together.

Teva was a very social creature. She always wanted to meet other dogs or humans. At some point, I felt it would be appropriate to take her to a dog park to meet other dogs. My fear that, as a pit bull, she would be riled to biting and attacking, came to naught. Teva was thrilled to meet other dogs off-leash, but what happened after she met was up in the air. Sometimes she'd begin to engage in friendly, submissive play. Sometimes she'd realize that she and the other dog were not meant to be friends, and she'd simply move away. But regardless, Teva would always approach humans with love. To her, humans meant security, and she treasured the loving, safe presence of a human. I began to joke that she loved to go to the human park. Dogs were okay, but HUMANS! They were the best!

One of the biggest tests I had was to introduce Teva to my partner's chiweenie, Auggie. Pit bulls and chihuahuas both have reputations for being aggressive, and in this case, it was one-sided. On their first meeting, Auggie, the alpha male, ferociously bum-rushed Teva, who cowed before this tiny dog. He saw her as infringing on his territory. It took a few more weeks of hand-wringing before we felt they could meet again. The next meeting was also fraught with barking and nerves, but during the prolonged meeting, the two gradually came to a fragile peace. And over the ensuing months, Auggie and Teva moved past mere tolerance of each other to enjoying each other's company, lying on the couch together, and even missing each other while they were apart.

Food never meant a tremendous amount to Teva; love and physical affection always motivated her more. That's not to say she didn't like her treats. She did. But actual food was more of a struggle, which confounded me; I've never known a dog to be lukewarm about food. But sometimes we'd feed her, lead her to her food bowl, and encourage her to eat, only to be greeted with a look of confusion, as if she did not know what to do.

Spring 2023

Teva and I visited the vet in February or March for some bloodwork to prepare her for surgery on a weak knee ligament. The bloodwork revealed elevated liver enzymes, and from that point on, addressing her liver became the priority. We treated her with bile acids and a supplement with milk thistle and assorted other antioxidants on a daily basis. She also went on some antibiotics to treat what our vet suspected was some kidney or liver infection. Unfortunately, to make a long story short, one of the antibiotics—metronidazole—backfired on her. Toward the end of its cycle, Teva began acting erratically, stumbling, having a hard time standing and walking forward, and at worst, experiencing seizures. A few trips to a vet urgent care center resulted in a diagnosis of metronidazole toxicity. Fortunately, treating that diagnosis resulted in a quick recovery; after 48 hours, Teva was back to her normal happy self...and she even became calmer, barking less and being less standoffish.

Walks with Teva were an increasing joy as the weather grew warmer. She loved being outside. As the spring snow melted, froze, and melted again, it took on a corny texture that Teva loved to chew on and lay down upon, and as it became scarcer, I searched for the last pockets of snow for her to enjoy. Then, as grass and leaves sprouted, she began to chew on them voraciously—a habit that never waned. I sometimes wonder if she preferred greens to her usual food, since it felt like eating them was her instinctual way of helping her liver out.

While I took on many of the outside duties for Teva—walks, dog park visits, and car rides with me to stores and such—my partner took on the inside duties. I noticed that she seemed to accept food more if he was the one to feed her, so I let him. He also loved to give Teva showers at least twice a month, which she quickly grew to enjoy, and when he would finish, I'd be there with an arsenal of towels, ready to rub her dry. Her coat always looked and smelled its best afterward, and we loved cuddling with her then.

Summer 2023

Summer brought joy, light, and of course, heat! I soon had to move our walks to early mornings—a tough task for me, since I was not an early bird—so Teva would not overheat in the blazing sun. Even then, she sometimes stopped in the shade of a tree to lie down and cool off before returning home. But despite struggling with heat during walks, she loved to lie in the sun on the back patio, then return inside, panting but happy. We chose to install a dog door to let her come and go at her leisure, which she used all the time.

My partner and I also visited my mom at her home often. She had a pool, and since we had been told by the shelter that Teva loved doggie pools, we felt that she would enjoy the big pool as well. Besides, this pool had a very shallow area we felt she might like. Well, she ended up being lukewarm about it at best. She'd dip in, but soon afterward slip out of the pool and lie down on the nearby lawn. And using a life preserver did not work at all; Teva was all thick muscle and dense bone, and would sink quickly without support in deeper water, even with the life vest. Still, she enjoyed being around the pool...just not in it.

As for her health, we decided to forego Teva's knee ligament surgery, feeling that she would prefer activity over being confined to a bed with a cone of shame for at least a few weeks after surgery. This proved to be a good decision. On its own, Teva's limp faded and eventually went away. Still, she would snip at us if we rubbed her knee too hard—a reminder that she was never fully out of the woods. Her liver remained a concern, though. Repeat blood tests documented liver enzyme levels that, while consistently decreasing, still remained elevated. And my partner and I noticed a yellowish tinge begin to appear on her belly, though I wrote it off as possible residue from her urine. Her eyes also seemed to look the slightest bit off-white, though I wasn't sure.

Fall 2023

For months, I had entertained the idea of letting Teva onto the bed with us. I knew that if I did so, that would be a Rubicon I could never uncross. But I finally relented, and Teva leapt onto the bed, happy to be there with us. Sleeping around her sometimes was difficult, yet being moved was almost painful for her. Once she found a place to sleep, this 50-pound velvet hippo wanted to stay put. I soon learned to get settled first, then allow her up. But once we were settled, it was wonderful to have her on the bed.

True to her nature, she didn't usually sleep facing us, but away from us, with her face to the door, as if to guard us. It also turned out that Teva didn't always like sleeping on the bed. Sometimes she was happy to curl up on her own mattress at the foot of the bed. Just as often, she would curl up in Auggie's tiny bed! Regardless, she was happy to have the choice.

Teva became more settled as summer faded away. She was happy at home, joyful on her walks, less vocal when meeting dogs, and just calmer in general. However, busy dog park visits eventually became too stressful for her. Teva was happiest in small groups, meeting a dog or maybe two at a time, but a massive group of dogs and dog owners was too much for her to take. The day finally came when I could not find Teva amongst a crazy storm of playing dogs because she had retreated away from the excitement to the dog park gate, silently waiting for me to take her home. The message was clear: after that day, I took her only to a dog park that had fewer visitors.

At some point, I began noticing that her digestion was unsettled. On our walks, she would kneel to poop multiple times. What came out was often more liquid and lighter than I knew to expect, and after the second time, nothing would come out. Other signs came up that she was not doing so well. Teva's appetite, never the greatest, diminished further. And eventually, the yellow tinge on her belly and in her eyes became undeniable. Her liver was truly struggling.

In early November, we saw the vet for blood work and a rabies shot. My vet came back with the results, and even though her liver enzymes were the best they had ever been, they were still elevated, and along with it, a further sign that her liver was in danger—elevated bilirubin and low platelets. I was referred to a not-so-nearby veterinary office in Loveland, about 45 minutes away, for an ultrasound.

A few days later, Teva got her ultrasound. The results were alarming—widespread cirrhosis. Even her pancreas seemed to be afflicted. The vet in Loveland wanted further work done, including liver biopsies...and not done laparoscopically. They wanted to open up her abdomen to visualize her liver, to truly see the extent of the damage.

I was devastated. I was unsure if Teva would even be able to withstand such a surgery. Apparently, this vet agreed; in her notes, she wrote about whether Teva's liver could deal with another round of anesthesia, let alone the recovery afterward.

Over the next two days, Teva and I went on a few walks, much shorter than usual. I let her dictate both the pace and when we returned. She lingered to sniff much more, walked more slowly, and chose to go home earlier. Her eyes and belly grew even yellower. Even her gums and tongue had taken on a salmon tinge that crept closer to orange every day. And though she was a healthy weight and continued to drink, she ate very little and could barely take any medicine.

Then the day came when I took her on that ride, that last visit to her favorite dog park, and finally, up to the vet's office one final time.

November 12, 2023

I arrived at the veterinarian's office around 2:00. Some staffers came outside to help lift Teva out of the car and onto a gurney. They swiftly brought her into the emergency room via a side door while I went to check in. As I walked through the front door, I realized I hadn't thought to look at her or say goodbye.

The wait in the room was blissfully short, though the TV showing The Great British Baking Show didn't hurt. The supervising vet came in and escorted me into a room. After introductions, she stated compassionately but plainly: "I'm worried about Teva."

"Me too," I replied.

But her concerns went further than I had expected...beyond the cirrhosis and beyond her inability to urinate. Teva's right back leg showed no motor function and virtually no response to touch or pain stimulus—it was, in effect, paralyzed. It went far beyond her previous knee ligament injury. Her left back leg was somewhat better, but not great. Moreover, the vet had noticed growths along Teva's spine that she guessed might be cancer. Finally, Teva had begun extending her neck back, and was not happy with bringing it back to a neutral position.

The possibility existed of either cancer, herniated discs, or a blood clot causing these issues, and while an MRI might be able to diagnose these, the issue was with Teva potentially not being able to withstand the anesthesia. Moreover, if she did, how good would her life be afterward? How useful would it be to see the results of the MRI? Would it change how we pursued Teva's care? And what of her liver biopsy surgery, already scheduled for just 48 hours later? That suddenly seemed like an impossibility.

I soon realized that Teva's life was done. Nothing could help her feel better, nothing could help her function, and no magic pill could bring her back to health. Teva's life had become intolerable in the span of barely a few hours. She was in pain and unable to perform the simplest but most necessary of bodily functions. Her back legs were nearly useless. There was nothing left to do but the inevitable.

I went outside with some blankets and felt pads for us to lie down on. When some staffers came out with Teva and laid her down, she was still hyperextending her neck and looking over her left shoulder at the sky. Her eyes, once so calm and beautiful, were yellowed with disease and dilated with fear and pain. For the next hour, as the sun sank lower in the clear sky and the breeze grew crisper, I played gentle music on my phone, stared up at the sky with her, and held her as gently as I could, telling her that she was fine, that I loved her, and that all would be well.

My partner and his friend arrived from Denver about an hour later. The sun had set, bringing the dark and cold evening, so we decided to move inside. Teva was still in silent but very visible pain, despite the methadone she had been given. I held her head up and over her left shoulder as she wanted, looking directly into her eyes and still telling her over and over again that I loved her, that she would soon be fine, and everything was okay. I had never been so close to a pet before. Then I silently nodded my consent to the vet to end Teva's suffering.

As milky propofol began to enter her feeble leg vein, Teva's pupils, still dilated with fear, soon eased with relief. Her neck eased up. Her head grew heavier. Her eyes became more relaxed, then vacant, as I lowered her head gently to the pillow and tears spilled from my eyes. It felt as if her pain was being transferred to me. Then, as the vet began injecting the Windex-colored liquid that would stop her heart, Teva gave one short exhale, then another final one. We kept holding her, telling her we loved her, and we were so sorry. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the vet listening to Teva's heart. After a short time, she looked up at me, and through her mask, quietly said, "Yep. She's gone now. I'm so sorry."

It was a relief for me to see Teva looked so relaxed, her eyes half-open in death and evincing peace at last. But after I finished the requisite paperwork and discussion of what would happen then, my friend said, "Well, I guess we should leave her." Sudden alarm engulfed me as I said, "Oh my God...we have to leave her." I heard my voice crying "I CAN'T LEAVE HER!" as I shuddered and covered my face, sobbing uncontrollably. Seeing Teva, even in death, still assured me that she was in my life. But I couldn't take the thought of looking at her a last time and going away forever. She had been such an essential part of my life, and I could not let that go. Not yet.

But life goes on when other lives end. Time soon reconciled me to the inevitable. A few short minutes later, I helped a staffer lift Teva's lifeless body up onto a gurney. Dark diseased urine spilled onto the ground from her now-relaxed bladder, at long last. And as we all left the room, I saw Teva get wheeled on the gurney down the short hall, through the emergency room door, and away from us forever.

Monday, November 13, 2023

Just like yesterday, today is a beautiful, cloudless, sunny, warm, and breezy day—what Colorado skiers call a bluebird day. The rest of the week is forecast to be just as beautiful and warm. Ordinarily, I'd welcome such weather. But this week, it will be cruel. Each day this week will only remind me of the last moments I had with Teva, staring up at the brilliant sky with her, holding her close, and letting her know that things would be alright, and she would soon be up there with the rest of the dog pals she loved but hadn't met yet.

It's a funny thing about memories: whether you want them to come back or not, they do, with little regard for your feelings. For me, the little mundane things hit the hardest. The house is unbearably quiet. Teva's collar doesn't jingle anymore as she walks from room to room. Her claws don't click on the wood floors. A random bark doesn't ring out from her throat as she tries to get my attention for some love or a walk. The doggie door doesn't clink as she goes out to the back patio or comes back in. Her dog dish is clean, bereft of food she chose not to finish for whatever reason. And her toy box sits full and untouched, as it had for the days when Teva's life became tougher and playtime didn't exist anymore.

I realized today when I got in the car that Teva was not there, front paws on the front armrest, waiting for me to curl my arm around her neck, kiss her, and tell her that I loved her as she licked my face in return. I walked in the garage door, and Teva did not come running from the couch to meet me. She's not looking expectantly at me at my desk from the living room, waiting for me to take her on her afternoon walk. She's not nuzzling my leg at my desk chair or putting her paw up on my leg, wanting some hugs and scritches. Tonight, she won't leap up onto my bed and curl up next to me as we slumber peacefully together. And she never will again.

I will always remember how she treated her walks not as an opportunity for exercise, but for a chance to stop and smell the roses—or, at least, smell the evidence of other dogs. Sometimes I'd pull on the leash, and she'd continue sniffing, ignoring my desire to keep walking. Or she'd leap up and away in some of the most graceful, gorgeous running I've ever seen. Sometimes we'd be mid-walk, and she'd stop, seemingly for no reason whatsoever. If I pulled on her leash, she'd dig her legs in and look up at me with her beautiful, wise eyes, pleading with me not to go any further. Occasionally I'd insist and lift her up by her harness so she didn't have a choice but to come along, but more often, I respected her wishes. Sometimes this would result in shorter walks, which I think she appreciated toward the end.

Teva's Gift

Pit bulls are among the most divisive of dogs. Evidence abounds documenting the violence and ferocity of these dogs; many communities have outright banned them. Yet just as much evidence more quietly documents the gentleness and loving nature of pit bulls. My experience has, without exception, been the latter. Teva was an enthusiastic and social dog but didn't have an aggressive bone in her body. She'd bark loudly and pull at the leash for the opportunity to meet another dog, regardless of the breed or size. But while I had her, never did she bite, nor did she ever growl threateningly at another creature.

I realize, to use a scientific term, that n = 1—in other words, this is just one person's experience—but my experience jibes with what another pit bull owner once told me: pit bulls are extraordinarily sensitive dogs, with little boundary between them and their environment. If a pit bull is surrounded by violence and anger, that is what they will reflect. But the same goes with love, compassion, and affection. And that is what we gave Teva...all the love, compassion, and affection we could. I have no doubt that people always appreciated her demeanor in large part because we never yelled at her or showed her violence.

I also realize that this sentiment may be unrealistically Pollyannaish and ignore the experience of other pit bull owners. Sometimes pit bulls—or any other dogs, for that matter—can remain recalcitrant, difficult, or downright dangerous, regardless of the gentleness they are shown. Sometimes the chemistry between a dog and an owner is just not right. And it is for this reason that any potential owner should choose their pet very thoughtfully, and if something does not seem right on a meeting, it may be for the best to let a dog go with an owner who may be a better fit.

Teva and I were in each other's lives for exactly 13 months, down to the day. She taught me a lot about love and compassion and being a good, responsible dog daddy. She provided a lot of support and love to my partner. The friend I brought up also enjoyed hanging out with her; he had the most experience of the three of us caring for dogs, and she loved his calming presence. And she helped socialize Auggie, who used to be very standoffish and threatening around other dogs. In effect, Teva ended up solidifying us as a family.

It hurts still, thinking that I could not make her life more peaceful or painless at the end, or that I could not have helped her liver more. And I will always wonder...was there something I missed? Did I really do all I could? Those questions will remain unanswered. But without a question, I have been given a lifetime of joy and loving memories in just over a year. There were a few frustrating moments, as there will always be, but more than anything, life with Teva was a loving, caring journey I will never regret.