I guess I hadn’t been paying too close attention. One day everything was normal, the next it seemed as if Woody had aged 30 years. His eyes were as bright as ever, but most of his hair had turned grey overnight. His walk was much slower and his taste for any type of food had all but disappeared. Then one night I noticed he completely ignored his favorite meal of steak and baked potato, preferring to just veg out on the couch. It was obvious that things were far from being right. He had stopped communicating in his normal fashion and all of his movements had a slow, almost exaggerated, motion. He didn’t moan or complain, just slept a lot and didn’t move too much. I had seen these signs too many times to ignore them.

The clinic took blood samples and some X-rays to help with a diagnosis and when they finally had one, it wasn’t very hopeful. I learned he was in renal failure. His kidneys were shutting down fast. They told me it was most likely a congenital condition and that it had been in an advanced stage for quite some time. There wasn’t much I could do at this point other than keep him comfortable and make sure that he ate to maintain his strength. Above all else, I needed to keep him hydrated; it was all-important at this stage.

When I told them about his recent refusal to eat or drink, they made two disturbing suggestions. The first was cat food. According to the clinic, it’s loaded with nutrition and vitamins, more than what most people could imagine, or ingest. When I explained that Woody would never eat cat food, I was given details regarding to prepare it and then place it on a dish for different meals. Apparently, the aroma of the heated feline food would be irresistible, especially the beef and chicken entrees. Since he didn’t seem to be interested in eating anything else I offered at the time, I thought it was worth a shot. Neither of us had anything to lose.

Their second suggestion was going to require a bit more work on my part. I had done it before, for Other roommates, but it wasn’t something I ever enjoyed very much, or looked forward to doing; I just had to do it. He needed at least two liters of fluids each day to keep his kidneys functioning, otherwise, uremic poisoning would shorten his time dramatically. I wasn’t nervous about inserting an IV. Over the years I had gotten pretty good at that particular task. No, it was the sitting around, watching the patient squirm as the solution dripped painstakingly slowly into a diminishing body that proved to be god-awful tedious. Witnessing another being circling the drain was never a fun time. Having root canal work came to mind as being preferable.

The drive home was oppressively quiet. Woody was the most lethargic I had ever seen. Given the situation and the recent news, it was understandable. Learning of a fatal disease has a way of sucking the air out of most situations; this was one of them.  Other than an occasional glance at the back seat, where the box of IVs sat, he barely moved from a nearly prone position in front. I didn’t know what to say or do in the moment, so I just drove, not bothering to play the car radio for a distraction. I made one quick stop at the local grocery store, leaving him in the car when I did. On my return, through the open windows, I could hear his gentle snoring. He awoke somewhat startled when I opened the door. Finally, we arrived home. I had to help him exit the car and find his way into the house; he seemed more than a bit disoriented once inside. 

All while preparing dinner, a feeling of loss tip-toed surreptitiously from room to room as he wandered around the house, behaving as if it were all new to him. Winston, the house terrier, picked up on it right away. He didn’t growl at Woody, he just gave him a wide berth and hung unusually close to me, not trusting what he was sensing as being normal or trustworthy – as if doom itself had announced its intentions. I fed Winston while the other food was being heated. When it was sufficiently warmed, I put the plate of “Chicken Delight” in front of Woody. He gave me a look that said, “What the hell?” Then he sniffed it a few times and dug in, cleaning his plate. Afterwards, he came over to me, basset ears leaving wet contrails on the wooden floor and tail wagging circularly, ever so slowly. It was the start of a tortuously slow journey.

– N.T. Chambers