At about 9:30 p.m. on Thursday (March 10), I went out to the sunroom to check on the dogs, and Pete, our 12-year-old lab/pit mix, was obviously in distress. He was panting and drooling and wouldn’t really move. After a panicked phone call to the local emergency vet, we managed to get him in the car to take him down there.
They took him back right away, and within a half hour the bloodwork came back indicating a very serious case of pancreatitis. They undertook “aggressive” fluid therapy to bring his lactate back to normal. At 2 a.m. I called to check on him, and there hadn’t really been much change. The vet called me back at 4 a.m. to report that he was actually feeling worse and that his organs were probably shutting down.
By 4:45 Nan and I were back down there saying goodbye, having made the decision not to draw out the inevitable.
I have no idea how long he’d been sick. If he felt bad before Thursday night, he did a good job of hiding it; his appetite and energy were fairly normal until then. I hate to think he had been miserable for a while and we missed the signs that could have allowed us to get him to the vet earlier and avoid this outcome for him.
Despite his somewhat intimidating appearance, Pete was really sweet and a true mama’s boy. He was also Rainy’s keeper, letting us know every day when she was done eating and would need to go out (I guess he got as tired of her peeing in the sunroom as we did). As recently as last week, I went in to let them out for their first pee break of the morning, and Pete headed out the door but came back in to poke his head into Rainy’s crate as I tried to coax her out; she was feeling particularly lazy that morning.
It’s been a sad few days around here.