23
Lyra
THE SCIENTIFIC PAPER DESCRIBING our first results with the hand signals was published on a Friday afternoon. The event signaled the conclusion of the first chapter of the Dog Project. For the first time in months, I had a weekend with nothing to do, and I planned to take full advantage of the leisure time.
It was May in Atlanta—one of two perfect times of the year, the other being in October. In these months, and only in these months, the atmosphere achieved a momentary stability as the air from the Gulf of Mexico was perfectly balanced by fronts settling in from the north. The air was warm but not humid. The pollen had disappeared. And the city was lush with new growth.
I lounged on the porch and enjoyed the spring air while Callie bounded in and out of the house with her favorite toy—a blue Kong. The Kong, shaped like a snowman, was just the right size so that Callie could get her mouth around the small end. Amazingly, the squeaker was still intact. She loved to carry it around, teasing me to take it away from her and darting away as soon as I got close. As I dozed off, I could hear her in the distance working the squeaker. The hours slipped away.
Helen woke me.
“Dad,” she said, “Callie is whimpering.”
Callie was in the family room, still chewing and squeaking her Kong. She appeared fine. Except she was chewing and making little whining noises.
I wrestled away the toy and threw it in the other room. Callie retrieved it and settled down just out of my reach, per her usual game. She continued to chew and whine. Callie was not generally a whiner. Apart from the time when she ate her way into the emergency room, I had never heard her complain about anything. Strangely, she seemed fine. I shrugged and told Helen not to worry.
“Maybe she’s inventing a new game.”
I returned to the porch to resume my nap, and Helen went back to playing a video game.
Soon, the sun dipped behind the tall southern pines, signaling the dogs’ feeding time. Callie had stopped chewing and whining and was asleep on the couch. Normally, Lyra would be right there in the kitchen barking up a storm to feed her. I called for her but got no response.
It didn’t take long to find her. She was in the living room, panting heavily. A pile of foul-smelling poop lay next to her.
Oh, Lyra, I thought, another accident. For the last several months, Lyra had intermittently had some mild digestive issues. Maybe once a week she would urp up a small amount of yellow stomach fluid. It never seemed to bother her, and she would always eat normally. It is a fact of living with dogs that from time to time you share your home with their stomach contents. Newton used to love chewing off the tags from articles of clothing. This inevitably resulted in him vomiting a few hours later. You get used to it.
While Kat cleaned up the mess, I fed Callie.
I had assumed that Lyra would hear the food in the kitchen and appear shortly. When she didn’t, I went to check on her.
She was lying on her side. I rushed to her and stroked her head. I didn’t want to upset the girls. Lyra’s eyes were open, but she wasn’t focusing on anything. Her breathing was rapid and shallow. I buried my face in her ear, whispering her name and trying desperately to suppress my rising sense of panic. But as soon as I did, I could feel that her lips and nose were cold. Her gums were pale. I ran to get Kat.
“Something is seriously wrong with Lyra,” I told her. “We have to get her to the emergency room right now.”
While Kat got a towel to lift Lyra, I broke the news to Helen.
“Helen, Lyra is really sick.” Fighting back tears, I went on. “We have to take her to the vet right now.” Helen immediately sensed the seriousness of the situation.
“Can I come?” she said.
“Yes, of course.”
“Is she going to be okay?”
Tears started down my cheek. I hugged her.
“I don’t know.”
Kat and I rolled Lyra onto a beach towel and carried her to the minivan, where we carefully placed her in the back. Helen sat down next to her and stroked her head. It was all a bit much for Maddy, who asked to stay at home. Kat agreed to stay with Maddy while Helen and I sped off to the ER, only five minutes away.
It was an early Saturday evening and a crowd of people, cats, and dogs was filling the vet ER. An old man was trying to sign in a schnauzer. I ignored him and demanded immediate help.
“How much does your dog weigh?” asked the receptionist.
“Eighty pounds.”
“Two techs to the front desk for immediate assistance!” she barked into the PA system.
In less than a minute, two women appeared with a gurney, and we rushed to the parking lot. I opened the tailgate of the minivan. Helen was still sitting with Lyra. I could tell from the techs’ facial expressions that this was not good.
“How long has she been breathing that way?” one asked.
“Less than an hour,” I said.
They lifted Lyra onto the gurney and rushed her into the back of the hospital. Helen and I sat down in the waiting room. Numbly, I pulled her tight.
We didn’t have to wait long. Another young woman, with long blond hair and kind eyes, introduced herself.
“I’m Dr. Martin, the staff veterinarian tonight.”
I looked at her, fearing the worst.
“Lyra’s blood pressure is extremely low, and we can’t get an IV started in any of her paws,” she explained. “We need to make a cut in her neck and put the IV there to give her fluids. Is that okay?”
I said yes, and she rushed away.
The receptionist motioned me to the front desk to sign paperwork. Having been there before, I knew they wanted me to guarantee payment. Of course I would. The last form, though, I was not prepared for. Did we want CPR performed if Lyra’s heart stopped? If not, then she would be a DNR: do not resuscitate.
Even in humans, CPR offers a fifty-fifty chance at best. If Lyra’s heart stopped, that could mean chest compressions, defibrillation, intubation, even open cardiac massage.
I called Kat.
“They want to know if she should be DNR,” I said.
“What’s wrong with her?”
“She’s in shock, but they don’t know why,” I said. “They’re doing a neck cut-down to get fluids into her, but they need to know if we want them to do CPR if her heart stops.”
Kat was an ICU nurse. She knew what was down that road.
“I don’t want her intubated,” she said. “I don’t want her to suffer.”
I didn’t either. I checked the box for DNR and sat down with Helen. After fifteen minutes the vet came out and explained the situation. They had managed to get an IV into Lyra’s neck and she seemed to be responding to the fluids they were giving her. Her blood pressure, though, remained unstable. The lab work showed that the level of potassium in her blood was elevated. Everything else was normal.
“Does she have Addison’s disease?” the vet asked.
Addison’s disease, technically called adrenal insufficiency, is a somewhat rare disease in both humans and dogs in which the adrenal glands cease to function. The adrenal glands sit atop each kidney and produce several hormones that are necessary to maintain vital functions of the body. Adrenaline is produced there and helps maintain blood pressure and heart rate. The adrenal glands also produce hormones that allow the body to absorb sodium from food. Nobody knows what causes Addison’s disease. It often progresses so slowly, with only the vaguest of symptoms, that it is sometimes never diagnosed. Until the patient enters an Addisonian crisis. A crisis can be triggered by the slightest of stress—a viral illness or even a mild injury. Without the necessary hormones to rev up the body to fight the stress, the patient collapses into shock.