Out of the blue, she foamed and slobbered at the mouth. She then threw up copiously and walked around groaning in obvious distress, apparently abdominal, for several minutes. I realized after several moments that she had defecated nearby. I followed her around talking to her, hoping that she would get relief after upchucking. Minutes later she retreated to a corner and vomited foam. At one point she rolled on her side and flailed. Weeping, I called several vets at 8 pm on Friday. None were available for house calls. I called my sister and my neighbor. She cleaned, he massaged her, and we talked to her for 45 minutes. Her breathing came increasingly fitfully and faintly. She died.
My dog Cookie died, 3-4 years of age, October 10, 2016. I’ve shown pictures of Cookie’s box of ashes in previous posts. Bess died, 3-4 years of age, October 19, 2018. What’s with October? I’m wondering if there’s something in this environment that condemns my dogs to premature, catastrophic failure. It’s difficult to process this event. Literally one hour before her death I was kicking Bess’s big round ball to her in the livingroom, and she was blocking it with her ass, growling and swatting it with her rubber bone, and cutting off my every shot with extreme dexterity — her favorite game.
I post this with inexpressible sadness.