Narrative

The Lion-Heart of a Dog

There is something immensely healing about dogs.

It was around March or so when Fox first arrived at my house. I waited restlessly for my aunt to arrive. At last, when I peered through the blinds of my family’s living room window, I saw a pair of lights shining through the night. I hurried to the door and crossed through the grass to receive the life-changing cargo which awaited me.

Though I was hardly able to contain my joy and excitement that Friday evening at the news of Fox’s arrival, I was not at all prepared for the experiences of the following year.

I opened the passenger door of Auntie Anne’s SUV. Sitting before me was Fox. I let him out, and he immediately led me to my own front door, as if he had known all along that this was home.

He had been found as a puppy by a friend of my cousin, wandering in a field next to a busy highway. They thought, at first, that he looked like a Fox; hence the name.

Fox was a small, handsome golden retriever. He had a solid black nose, bright, rich, golden-red fur, and shiny, silky-soft ears. There was something graceful about the slant of his eyes.The way he carried himself was noble and horse-like, with a proud lift of his head. He pranced when he walked.

He was restless and nervous at first, and paced a lot. It was hard for him to get used to the suburban setting, after having lived with my cousin in the countryside where there were hardly any cars. The first Monday after Fox arrived, I took him on a walk around the neighborhood. The impatient cars barreling through the neighborhood scared him out of his wits. He flinched every time one passed.

Later that evening, I sat with my legs stretched in front of me upon the couch, trying to focus on my Economics homework. I was distracted by a sound coming from Fox, who was asleep in his crate across the room. I looked up. He appeared to be dreaming. He jerked repeatedly, and I wondered if he was reliving the walk we had taken earlier. There was something about the way he jerked, though, that seemed different that than a motion caused by a dream. I’d never seen a dog, or a person, jump so dramatically or abruptly while sleeping. Eventually I decided that he must be dreaming. I couldn’t imagine what else it could be.

My eyes were still at rest upon Fox when there was a sickening change. There was no time to blink. It happened without transition. One moment, he was asleep on his side, and then his whole body was flung into a sprawled position. The metal crate rattled as his mouth snapped open painfully wide, as far as it could stretch. His nose was scrunched and his head was forced back. His tail and legs straightened and spread apart, with his toes stretched through the air. I knew immediately it was a seizure, although he did not thrash about the way I had always imagined. Instead, a fierce vibration gripped his frame like a violent earthquake. What I was watching was a hundred times worse than anything I’d seen on television; this was not acting. There were no special effects, no way of reminding myself that this was just a movie. The raw reality of the scene thrust itself upon me like an icy fist in the stomach.

I couldn’t watch. “Oh my gosh, he’s having a seizure,”  were the first words that forced their way through my throat. My sister Liz jumped immediately from her chair and, opening the crate door, placed her hand against the back of Fox’s head to cushion it. At the same time I felt myself curl into a fetal position as my hands covered my eyes. I thought to myself, what am I doing. I have to do something. With no idea of my next action I unraveled myself and stood.

Liz meanwhile, had called for mom, telling her what was happening. My legs wobbled as I hurried toward the stairs where mom was entering the room. My breath escaped my lungs and I pulled in air with rough, desperate gulps.

The vibrations slowed. Almost as abruptly as the seizure itself, there came a hollow, despairing howl from Fox. It was a mournful, jarring, cry that cut through the air and seemed to penetrate my core. The wild call descended sorrowfully into a sigh of release. His mouth closed, cutting off the sound, and he began to swallow repeatedly, snapping his mouth open and shut.

As he lay on his side, gulping, I approached shakily. I attempted to say his name, but could not complete the word. It took quite an effort to speak. “F-F-Fo...Fox?”

Multiple visits to the veterinarian’s office followed. They didn’t know what caused them, but after that, the seizures happened about once a month. I researched and read about epilepsy in dogs, and discovered that although the seizures looked and sounded painful, Fox was unconscious during the ordeal. This bit of knowledge was something to which I clung for comfort. However, he was often very anxious and disoriented for hours afterwards.

Despite the chaos of those occasions, he seemed truly happy to be at our house. He enjoyed all the people in the neighborhood and the individual attention we could give him, as opposed to living with four other dogs and only one human, as he had been before with my cousin. I took him on walks every day, and he soon became a favorite in our neighborhood, especially among children. He would settle into the grass and let them climb all over him. Our neighbor’s kids would ring our doorbell asking to pet Fox.

I always admired his eyes. It’s true that their shape reminded one of a fox, but their expression was full of gentle kindness. He radiated a sweet, good-natured warmth.

After several months, the seizures started to become more frequent, until he was having as many as four within a 24-hour period. The veterinarian tried several types of medications. They would work for about three weeks at a time, but they made him extremely weak and uncoordinated. He could hardly stand, let alone walk more than a few yards without crumpling to the floor or running into a wall. The seizures always came back full blast.

I still took him on walks, but I made them very short. He couldn’t move at our normal pace, and the first time, when I took him only partway around our court, he fell down four times. During the next walk, when I noticed him beginning to sway, I looked back at him. As our eyes connected, I began to urge him along. “Come on Fox, you can do it. Move your feet, move your feet!” I could see in his face that he was almost pleading for help and motivation. He seemed to cling to every word. He would teeter for a moment, but at last the message from his brain would complete its journey to his foot, and he would finally manage to take the step needed to support him before he collapsed. His tenacious will and character was truly inspiring.

After a year with Fox in our lives, it became clear that he was suffering too much. Whether he was taking the medication or not, he was weakened by the seizures, and they were not stopping. I finally saw him rest when we made the heart-wrenching decision to put him to sleep.

  I’ve always wanted to write about Fox, but I think I’ve been afraid of not telling his story right. I realize now, however, that I don’t need to make his story beautiful, because there is no beauty or significance to be added to it. His story has already been written with a sweeter, more profound tone than any I could conjure. His story was written by the Maker of all creatures, the Author of life. I need only to record his story; it will speak for itself. I have not the shadow of a doubt that Fox was planted in my life, and in the lives of so many others for a purpose. Gradually, I reached the ability to stay calm and collected during the terrifying seizures. He taught me about myself and helped me grow. He was an extraordinary example of true courage, loyalty, and unconditional love.

That one look, when we struggled together to finish the walk together, had a powerful and beautiful effect on me, because I could see how devoted he was, and how much he relied on me. He seemed to be telling me, “if you say it, I can do it”.