One more dragonfly = One more angel

Our sweet boy, Mante, passed away on April 16, 2016, at approximately 9:00 p.m., after nearly ten happy, joy-filled, and playful years. It was sudden and unexpected, beyond traumatic for all of us, and the most difficult thing we have ever had to do - coming to the conclusion that we had to make the kind choice – a choice for him, for his benefit, for his peace.

Mante had become more and more picky about his food over the last couple of months.  On Monday, he threw up several times in the morning, and began walking with his tail down and acting kind-of mopey.  By Wednesday night, he wasn’t eating more than a few bites at a time, and that was only if he was hand fed.  We thought maybe his eyesight and/or sense of smell were diminishing.  He would wander the house as if he were looking for something, having great difficulty getting settled, occasionally slipping as his back legs fell out from under him. Friday morning, there was some evidence that he may have thrown up again during the night, and he had dried greyish slobber all down his chest and around his mouth.  I gave him a bath before work, and decided to make an appointment to have him seen that afternoon.

The doctor checked him over, found that he had actually gained weight, despite not eating regularly for several weeks, and decided to draw blood to do a full panel of tests and to collect a urine sample.  We had blood drawn about a year before and discovered that his blood proteins were low, but they weren’t sure why.  They decided to try different, high-protein foods, and see how it went, with the worst case scenario being a protein losing neuropathy which causes a seeping of proteins into his urine not allowing it to be absorbed into the blood and used for energy and growth.  He never had any trouble, so we didn’t worry.  That prior blood test, though, became important on Friday because they had a baseline to use for comparison.  He had become anemic and his blood sugar was very low (40, instead of a normal 100-200).  Mante wouldn’t pee, so they used a needle to withdraw the urine but drew out ‘free fluid’ that had filled his abdomen.  The vet recommended an abdominal ultrasound to determine what was causing the fluids, which we scheduled for Saturday afternoon (the soonest time their internal medicine vet was available).  

We got home from the vet on Friday at about 5:45. At 6:10, Mante had a seizure. It was very violent and involved his entire body, and we realized that what we thought had been evidence of throwing up that morning, had actually been a seizure during the prior night. We immediately called the vet and rushed him back. Unfortunately, there wasn’t anything they could do to prevent the seizures. The anti-seizure medicine they would need to give him was so strong that, in his fragile state, it carried a very high risk of killing him and that the seizures themselves wouldn’t.  They advised that we should take him back home, help him through the seizures, if there were any more, and be sure he didn’t get hurt falling down or falling off a piece of furniture.  But, if he had a seizure that lasted more than five minutes, or had more than five in an hour, we needed to take him to the emergency clinic.  Otherwise, we would bring him in for the ultrasound the next day.  

Between that time and 10:45 p.m., he had 5 more, each time ‘coming out of it’ happy and licking us, able to run around, and having something to eat (much to our surprise).  But, then he had two really bad ones right in a row that he never really pulled out of. We drove him to the ER, and he suffered three more seizures in the car, and three more after we got to the vet. They administered the anti-seizure medicine because, at that point, the seizures posed more risk of brain damage and death than the medicine did. At about 2 a.m., the emergency vet told us that he was in critical condition and his prognosis was poor. They would monitor him overnight, continuing to administer the medicine as needed, and hope he made it through the night.

He did. We were thrilled when the vet called early Saturday to say that he had even been outside to go potty, and that he hadn’t suffered any more seizures during the night.  He wasn’t stable enough to bring home (his blood sugar had been fluctuating rapidly throughout the night, ranging from 90 to 25 despite IV- and syringe- administered dextrose). So, we left him there until, as planned, we took him to our own vet that afternoon for the ultrasound. We were so happy to see him. He looked much better than he had, and seemed excited to see us as well.

We were told the ultrasound would take about 45 minutes, so we dropped him off and, at the doctor’s advice, went to get some lunch.  It only took 15 minutes for them to figure out what was wrong.  He had a chronic liver disease called Hepatic Microvascular Dysplasia, which means that the tiny vessels in the liver that filter out toxins and make protein are either too small or nonexistent. It causes the liver to atrophy over time and, although it is a disease that takes a long time to develop and present itself, the final presentation is acute and often fatal. The fluid in his belly was from his liver finally failing, and the extremely low blood sugar was because of the liver’s inability to do its job.

The vet’s message: It was a matter of time before he passed, maybe hours, maybe weeks. The seizures would continue and would get worse and worse, and he would likely pass from a grand mal seizure, which was a horrific thing to witness, our vet said. The kind choice, he said, would be to help him pass peacefully and without pain or trauma instead. Since neither of our kids were with us, we opted for a ‘Hail Mary’ pass, and allowed the vet to administer a very high dose of steroids and an injection of dextrose which could give him a little more time – how much, we wouldn’t know.

We took him home, called Sarah to come home early from work, and spent about 3 hours snuggling him, giving him lots of kisses, and telling him how much we loved him.  He was completely out of it, looking panicked, drooling all over himself and us, and unwilling or unable to open his mouth to give us kisses (he kept bumping his nose against us, instead), or drink water, or eat anything.  Then the seizures started again. He had three within a very short period of time, and we knew his blood sugars were tanking again and that he didn’t have much longer. Not wanting him (or our kids) to go the grand mal seizure, we began calling around to find a vet who provided at-home euthanasia, but were unsuccessful.  After the third seizure, very upset crying children, and an inconsolable husband, I made the call that it was time to go and made arrangements to bring him back to the emergency clinic. Sarah and Dave took him outside for one last potty-attempt before we headed out, and he was unable to move his back legs. When he tried to walk, he just fell over. It was time.

During the nearly 30-minute drive, Mante sat happily on my lap, snuggled up in a blanket, and enjoyed being petted, cottled, and kissed by his mama and his girl. I think we all began to second-guess our choice, thinking perhaps he was, indeed, having a miraculous recovery. Those wishful thoughts were dashed when, within seconds of getting out of the car and entering the emergency clinic, Mante seized again.

Fortunately for us, and him, the same vet and tech who had taken care of him the night before were working again, and had so much compassion and sympathy for us. I think they had grown to love him a little, as his sweet demeanor was difficult to not fall deeply for.  They were extremely kind. As we sat in the room waiting for them, Mante had yet another seizure, finally confirming that we were making the right, although agonizing, choice.  

Sarah held Mante on her lap while we all petted and loved on him as he received the injection. When the first syringe, a sedative, was administered, he actually looked relaxed and at peace for the first time in days. Mante passed quietly and peacefully, in the arms of his loving human family. We spent about 15 minutes with him, taking turns holding him and telling him how much we loved him, and that his puppy brother Weenie, a his human uncle Greg (who loved Mante dearly) would be waiting for him in Heaven.

It was an absolutely shocking, horrific, and traumatizing event, but it ended with such a sense of peace and serenity, that we were all convinced we had, indeed, made the kind choice for Mante.

He was such a special part of our life, and we will never forget his love for chewing on socks, his endless happy laps running around the house, the way he proudly kicked up grass every time he went potty outside, his annoying howl and incessant barking at the koi, and the sweet way he cocked his head when we talked to him, as if trying so hard to understand our words. Mante was the smartest one of the bunch, for sure, just like the breeder told us.

Cooper and your humans will miss you, sweet boy. Rest peacefully, and enjoy your healthy new body.

We love you, dragonfly.