By Kyle Roberts
We southerners have quite an approach to politeness.
I guarantee an hour after you read this column, you will have been asked multiple times (and often in good faith by others) some variation of “How are you doing?” or “How’s the family?”
And, as southerners, sometimes we’re tempted to lie with a hearty “Doin’ fine!” Or “Makin’ it!” — whatever your choice is.
But this week, I’ve tried to lean into radical candor about how I’m doing — not for the sake of oversharing, but to be honest with people who, I believe, ask in good faith how I am.
The truth is, I, and our household for that matter, am/are not fine right now.
On Wednesday, Aug. 20, we got the call from the vet every pet owners fears when they’ve left a sick pet overnight: “Bexley didn’t make it.”
Our four-and-a-half-year-old corgi was perfectly fine one day and then gone the next. It’s a gut punch that has rippled over the last few days, even when it seems like all is okay for a few hours at a time.
A quick caveat — I’m probably the least animal loving person in my house. Not that I wished ill on my pets (I’ve made jokes at their expense (please forgive me, Vicki)), but our animals have rarely pulled any significant emotion from me.
But boy — this one was different.
Bexley was, for all intents and purposes, a velociraptor as a puppy. She was mean, hyper, and aggressive. Corgis are bred as herding dogs — their natural instincts are to keep little mammals in line and corralled in the herd. And when the little mammals were your seven- and four-year-old daughters at the time, well, there were a lot of bloody ankles, cheeks, and noses because Bexley was a cute little terrorist.
During this time, I swore to my family (and myself) that no matter what, we’re not giving up on her. And thanks to some excellent training from Sharon St. Andre that my darling wife implemented at home, Bexley started to figure it out. It took lots of patience, but we established the needed hierarchy in our house: Judith was the Alpha, I was the best friend, Alice was her peer, and Penny was beneath her. And it remained that way all to the end.
But she eventually figured it out. She started calming down and lounging around the house or splooting on the floor with a happy rawhide. She turned into the dog we knew she could be: a cuddler who just wanted scratches and belly rubs. She was a good doggy.
The day before she died was just a run of bad luck. Appointments, school — you name it. We just didn’t catch whatever was going on in time before we saw that it was time to rush her to the vet. And likely, the worst part was the a glimmer of hope that night. Thanks to the hard work from Dr. Sexton and his staff, Bexley had a chance. Her vitals stabilized, and we knew that she needed to stay overnight there in a familiar setting. While none of us slept well that night, we at least were bullish that she would recover.
Judith got the call while I was waiting to drop my oldest off at school in car line. When Judith didn’t immediately call me back, my stomach knotted. I knew before I even heard her answer the phone.
Our 15-year-old chihuahua walked into the woods four years ago and I didn’t shed a tear. Our outdoor cat Apollo lived for 12 years (unheard of for an outdoor cat) before she disappeared for good last summer. Emotions totally in check.
But Bexley somehow was different. Maybe it’s the eight-plus years we’ve been robbed by some random toxin we’ll never identify (believe me, we’ve looked inside and outside for four solid days). Maybe it’s the hurt it’s causing my wife and kids. Maybe it’s just how randomly grief attacks us all — we may think we have it all together only to find ourselves crying at the leash hanging on a doorknob or the empty crate you give away as a donation. Grief attacks our autonomic system, meaning we have little to no control over it, despite thinking we’re unaffected.
So it’ll likely be a few more days of not being “just fine,” as is my normal answer when politely asked how I’m doing. One day, we’ll all be fine again, but until that time comes, we’ll keep putting one foot in front of the other. Together, as a family.
Our family wants to thank the staff at Sexton Animal Health Clinic in Ruston for loving Bexley until the very end.
