Wednesday last week, Alfie did something he’s never done before. Soon after we’d set out for our morning walk, he turned around, headed for home.
What’s up?
Just wanna lie under the table and chill for a bit.
Okay.
I’m fine.
You coughed a little last night.
And now it’s Monday 12. Alfie, ten years, seven months and seventeen days old, has been coughing an unfamiliar sounding cough now and then. Just now and then. We’re going to see his friend Julie this Friday at the veterinary clinic. That’s the earliest appointment we can get.
Cough aside, Alfie’s nose is cold and wet. And last Wednesday aside, he’s enjoying our walks. His appetite hasn’t diminished. He’s interested, as ever, in saying hello to all his friends. He’s been leading me to the Gate of Glen, looks down the driveway, swishing his tail.
Where is he?
Glen is Alfie’s border collie friend we see little of, these days. He had a stroke last year, stays indoors by the fire with his human.
I’d take you down there, Al, but Glen might be grumpy, frustrated because he can’t do all the things he used to do.
Can you ask Mrs G if I can see him?
I will.
Saturday 27 October 2018. M, Alfie and I had spent Friday night at my sister’s place. I didn’t sleep well on account of the new dog in our life having to spend his first night with us in a garden, in Nora’s hot tub house. Still, there was plenty of room in there, and he seemed to take the whole experience in his stride. Alfie got on well with Nora’s companion, labrador Milly, too. I could see Milly trying to figure what his foul smell was all about. She didn’t mind it as much as we did. And now we were home in Cumbria, after this and that contraflow and a walk around the grounds at Tebay Services. Alfie hadn’t eaten yet, but had drunk plenty. Given what he’d been through since leaving Dead End Farm on Friday afternoon, M and I weren’t concerned.
On meeting the step up into the hallway, Alfie drew his head back, cartoon boggle eyes a-boggling, and put one paw forward, an inch from the ground, as if poised to test the water.
It’s okay, you can come in.
What is this place?
Your new home.
Smells funny.
Ha, you’re funny.
Apart from steps and stairs, Alfie mightn’t have known a feeding bowl, either. That, or he didn’t like the sound it made scraping along the yard. He’d flipped the bowl with his paw, snarfed his food from the paving flags, all the while looking out for threats.
M and I persuaded him to step up into the hallway, down into the kitchen, and down again into the living room. On account of his rotten meat smell, I ran a bath, carried him upstairs, could feel his heart hammering against my chest. He stood in the bath getting soaped and rinsed and talked to, all the time his boggle eyes roving my face.
Sunday we went for a couple of short walks in the village. That night I sat watching the rise and fall of his chest while he slept on a squashy cushion.
The next morning, Alfie got weighed, was underweight by about three kilos, and began a course of treatment to tackle demodectic mange. I recounted what I knew of his life at Dead End Farm to the veterinarian.
“We’ll delay vaccinations,” said Vicky, “until he’s in better condition.”
I watched Vicky exploring Alfie’s spine with her hands, and looking at his teeth and gums. He booped her cheek with his nose. We talked about his friendliness, his chill, and that he showed no signs of fear.
“Unlike Poppy,” I said. “She would cower if we so much as drove past the clinic.”
Vicky placed her stethoscope on different areas of Alfie’s chest. After an age, she said: “I’m afraid this lovely boy won’t live a long life like your other collies did.”
That’s when Alfie and I met Julie, who specialises in cardiology and ultrasonography. Julie suggested I walk into town, grab a coffee, do whatever errands I needed. I remember nothing of that hour but everything Julie said in the hour that followed.
Alfie lay in a consulting room by Julie’s feet, quite the dog in residence. He swished his wolfy tail and barked a series of deep barks. He’d wait for a reply from a dog in the adjoining waiting room, bark again. I sat stroking Alfie’s head. He closed his eyes, snoozing, while Julie explained Alfie’s heart rate was excellent.
“Well, we can see how chill he is now,” she said.
But, Alfie had a grade six heart murmur, six being the most severe, and a congenital heart condition: Patent Ductus Arteriosus, PDA. Was Alfie lethargic? Did he get breathless while walking? Did he cough? I couldn’t answer all of Julie’s questions, after all, I’d known Alfie for just sixty-odd hours. We talked about his quality of life.
“If he coughs,” said Julie, “get in touch with me soon as you can, alright? As for how long he has, I wouldn’t like to say.” That Alfie had survived this long in the condition he’d been living in was, she said, remarkable.
We discussed a potential operation, but it wasn’t without complications or risk, especially for older patients. It occurred to me then that I was editing the story of Alfie and I, what I’d imagined our life together would be like. Here was a dog that wouldn’t be able to run around on the fells, the beach. Would he need medication? Could he be in pain and how would I know?
Do I look like I’m in pain to you?
You look content lying there.
Oh, I am.
Later, I emailed a friend of a friend at the Royal Dick School of Veterinary Studies in Edinburgh. I liked Julie, trusted everything she’d told me. I wanted to know more, though, wanted to know more about the operation, which my friend in Edinburgh performed on a routine basis. PDA isn’t a rare condition; humans can be born with it, too. He emailed me some research papers, I read them again and again.
By this time, I knew the operation was over two-thousand pounds. My friend emailed again and asked what I’d do if the cost wasn’t an issue. I replied that I’d find the money, would borrow it. But that the cost wasn’t my biggest concern. “Even if I had the money in the bank,” I wrote, “What you’ve told me about the risk of anaesthetic death, given Alfie’s age and condition, being high? Well, if Alfie is with us for just months, I believe we can give him a good life. He’ll be loved. He is loved. And had I known all of this when we went to see him, we’d have still brought him home.”
“Good. That’s what I hoped you’d say. “
If you’re a veterinarian reading this, I’d be interested to know if I’ve explained it right: Alfie has left-to-right PDA. Alfie’s PDA presents itself as a continuous, machine-like heart murmur, and a so-called water hammer pulse.
The ductus arteriosus is a blood vessel formed in utero, it’s a normal part of the foetal structure. The vessel connects the descending aorta artery to the pulmonary artery. When a dog (or human) is born, takes its first breath, the lungs fill with air. That action stimulates the vessel into closing down within the first seventy-two hours. It isn’t clear why that’s not always the case and the ductus arteriosus remains patent (open,) shunting blood continuously left to right. The end result is an enlargement of the left atrium and ventricle and left-sided congestive heart failure.
That October, after Alfie’s first consultation with Julie, we got home and I put the kettle on.
Remember what Julie said, you won’t be able to run around on the beach chasing frisbee.
That throwy thing like what Milly was playing with? I’m deeply suspicious of all throwy things anyway.
And we can only walk, say, three to five miles a day. During which you’ll be on a long lead.
Hmm.
Love you, Al.
I know. Can I have one of those biscuits up there on the shelf?
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This is so lovely, Bee. I want to meet Alfie now. He sounds adorable. And what a thing you did giving him a home. He's a lucky boy to have you. This is really tenderly written too. Lovely
Such a lovely story. Long live Alfie.