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Veterinary Practice News Editorial Blog:
Monday, July 12, 2010
Farewell, Miss Mickey
By Marilyn Iturri
Editor of VeterinaryPracticeNews.com and Veterinary Practice News
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 I never expected to miss this dog.
She was a pain in the tush from the very beginning. In 1998, my friend Maryanne asked if I’d foster a young black and white cocker spaniel that had been rescued from the streets, just till she could find her a permanent home.
I agreed, and took my two incumbent cockers to meet this little girl on neutral ground.
Having lived with homeless people, she had never ridden in a car. She got carsick and vomited several times on the way home.
Once I got her home, of course, she was mine. Her first groomer visit revealed a three-circle Mickey Mouse-shaped marking on her back. Noticing it, I said “Mickey!” and she turned to look at me. So Mickey she was.
In a short time I had her cherry eye repaired and she was spayed. We guessed she was about a year old.
She immediately embarked on adventures in eating (and overeating) whatever she could, edible or otherwise: Dog food, before I realized she was always ravenous. The other dogs’ meds. Delicacies from the cat’s litter box. Assorted items from the trash.
We always did our part to support the veterinary industry.
For a short dog, she was a remarkably good counter surfer. She would jump repeatedly until she reached what she wanted. If that didn’t work, she found a way to get on the counter. Even when she was about 10, I had to put my purse in the linen closet at night or she would climb onto the dresser to nose through it, looking for Chap Stick or an inhaler or whatever else might suit her fancy.
After years of not being tempted by my glasses, she developed a taste for them. She destroyed two pairs before I learned to keep them in the nightstand drawer. The people at LensCrafters laughed and said it happens all the time.
Once, during the holidays, my sister rearranged her furniture to accommodate a Christmas tree. The couch was close enough to the kitchen counter that Mickey, in reconnaissance mode, strolled along its back then jumped for the counter. Her prize: a cooling pork loin roast.
We watched, shocked, as she snatched it, jumped down and headed off to the laundry room with it. My sister’s German short-haired pointer stared, too. Her eager expression said, “Where’s my roast?”
Mickey was infuriating, but it was impossible to stay angry. Her big brown eyes and enormously long eyelashes melted my heart.
Her last big dietary indiscretion was a mint dental floss container last fall. Somehow it made its way out unassisted, the chewed and ragged plastic wreaking havoc along the way. My first clue: She wouldn’t eat.
On July 5, when she again refused to eat, I knew her time was up. With plenty of help from her veterinary team, her liver cancer had been manageable till then, her quality of life decent.
Her decline was rapid. As I stroked her soft and silky head, we gave her the gift of euthanasia.
Now, for the first time in 24 years, I have no dogs. The cat, who by now probably thinks she’s a cocker, yowls plaintively. Yet the house is still and lonely.
No, I didn’t expect to miss this dog. But I was very wrong.
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