The Miracle of Joey-full Joey

As today is Christmas, I’m going to share the story of Joey and the Joey-ful miracle he shared.

Joey was a mighty, seven-pound, white miniature poodle, gifted with a glorious spirit and unfortunate health. To name only a few of his ailments, Joey had pancreatitis, diabetes, Cushing’s disease, chronic dry eye, cataracts causing blindness, and epilepsy.

As you can likely guess, as Joey’s veterinarian, we knew each other well.  

In his whole long-doggy-life, no matter how many needle pokes or prods were necessary, Joey never growled. All you had to do was whisper his name and his tail wiggled with Joey-joy and he would flop over for belly rubs and snuggles.

Joey’s pet dad, a no-non-sense man of few words, enjoyed touring on his Harley with tiny Joey wearing his dog-goggles. I couldn’t help asking, “Do you get a hard time for carting around a tiny fluffy dog?” Dead pan, he replied, “I’ve got nothing to prove.”

Joey’s pet mom is to credit for his long and happy life. She handled each new health challenge with grace. Eventually, even though Joey’s diseases were well managed, lingering concerns led us to dig deeper and we uncovered the dreaded ‘C’…  cancer. Many tears and deep discussions later, the decision was made… no more tests, no more needles, no heroics… only quality time for Joey.

Christmas is for family. Joey had many wonderful Christmases. This year, in honour of Joey, I’m going to slow down and focus on quality time. Time with loved ones and living life to the fullest.

For Joey, I suspected we had weeks. He proved me wrong.

Months more than any of us, his owners included, expected, the text finally came in.

It was Joey’s time.

Joey had started into seizures through the night. Plans were made to meet at the vet hospital. We administered a dose of valium to calm Joey. Then we gave an anesthetic agent to pull him from the cloak of the seizures and help him rest. As much as we all knew the choice not to fight was the right thing to do, it still felt like someone was cranking my heart in a vice. We bundled Joey in soft fleece. The hospital team poured love around him with kisses and cuddles, and I laid Joey into his owner’s lap.

Joey was free from the seizures—for now—breathing smoothly and comfortably. We chatted for a couple minutes, letting his pet parents know that when the anesthetic wore off, the seizures would return. I was prepared to top Joey up for as long as they needed. When they were ready, the next step would be a painless, stress free for Joey, medication given through the intravenous line… to stop his heart. There was no rush.

Seeing Joey comfortable and calm, the stress lines on his owner’s foreheads relaxed. Fresh tears filled their eyes and as I left the room, their attention was only for Joey.

During the wait, I couldn’t help reflecting on the superhero of Joey. He’d inspired me to work harder, to collaborate and to be a better veterinarian. He forgave me for my short comings and rewarded me with years of happy memories with his family.

I tapped gently and opened the door to our comfort room.

Panicked expressions met mine. “I think he’s gone!” his pet mom whispered.

“Really?”

Distressed nods.

“That’s Joey for you.” I smiled, tears brimming. “He knew it was his time and when you were together and alone, he went. How lovely.” The wave of relief and flooding joy could only have come from Joey.

As I collected my stethoscope, a minor quake of panic rushed in. Had Joey’s body betrayed him with a traumatic last gasp? Did he cry out in pain when I wasn’t there to comfort him or his owners? Fearing the worst, I asked, “Was it peaceful? Was he comfortable?”

“Yes. He just stopped breathing.”

“Wow,” listening through my stethoscope, I confirmed Joey’s passing with a nod. “I couldn’t have asked for anything more.”

At hearing this, his owners relaxed and given permission, hugged over him to begin their grieving. I snuck from the room.

When I returned after sharing the news of Joey’s peaceful passing with the team, Joey was cradled in his mom’s arms. She was rocking back and forth. Joey fit perfectly into her shoulder. They looked so natural. She hugged and hugged, tears streaming. If she could have held him forever, I’m sure she would have.

We sat for long moments. The lights dimmed, piano music helping to dull the busy practice on the other side of the door. We chatted about his last days, and we laughed at the wonder of Joey.

When the stories slowed, I finally said, “You’ve done an amazing job. It’s okay now, to put him down.”

The music stopped. The room went still.

Then, Silent Night began to play over the room’s speaker.  

Joey’s pet mom gave him a final hug and released him into my arms.

I couldn’t have planned for a better good-bye. There’s a photo of Joey, our little miracle, high up on the wall of our staff reflection board. He will forever be a part of our practice.

Joey’s life was a battle. In his final years, he wore a halo, but Joey didn’t need one to be an angel. He carried his burdens with grace. In his final moments, in a Joey-full way, he shared a miracle with us. For as long as I will live, whenever I hear Silent Night, I will remember Joey.