“Good girl! You’re such a good girl! GOOD. I’d walk over and pick up the pen while Petunia glared at me like she wished me a slow, painful death. “Petunia…STAY.” At this point, I’d sound like a mom who means business. “Good girl! Stay.” I’d put my hand up, the signal she and I had agreed on for “stay.” I’d go to move toward the pen. Reluctantly, Petunia would get up, walk over to her bed, and sit. We’d engage in a three-minute eye-to-eye stare down that usually ended with her not going to her bed, but instead lying down on the floor right where she was with her muzzle on top of the pen. She knew that if she went to bed and let me pick up the pen, her reward would be the treat, but she didn’t yet know if it was worth the trade. “Petunia, go to bed.” I’d point to the bed. She’d then look back at me, a woman who carefully weighs her options. She’d look at me, unimpressed, then look back at the stolen item-let’s call it a pen. “Do you want a treat?” I’d really hit the word treat, my voice scaling a full octave. “Petunia, leave it,” I’d say in a firm voice, which she would completely ignore. During those times when I did drop something and she got to it before me, there was an entire protocol I followed to get that item back. For many years, I couldn’t leave remote controls out-she would jump up and steal them. I never left anything on the floor shoes always went on a table to the confusion of anyone who entered my home. Should Petunia’s stereophonic bat ears or her saucer eyes detect an ill-fated human accident that landed an item on the ground, she was poised at any moment to rush toward it at full speed, growl-rumbling, bark-sounding. Not only does that spilled coffee belong to Petunia-the floor below it does as well. You dared to accidentally spill coffee on the floor and want to clean it up? I’m sorry, don’t even consider getting near that area with a paper towel. A sock didn’t make it into the laundry hamper and Petunia found it? That’s now Petunia’s sock. Oh, you dropped a tube of ChapStick? Forget about it, that’s Petunia’s now. Petunia didn’t do this, but she did guard literally every single thing on the floor that she deemed belonged to her-which were most things. Resource guarding happens when a dog is so protective over something, they become aggressive when you attempt to take it away from them. She inherited one of the worst terrier traits: resource guarding. While Petunia had an undeniably adorable face, she was not what you would call “a good dog.” She was, in fact, very, very naughty. I am so sorry to tell you she is at the end of her life.” “Without a scan, it is impossible to determine the exact issue, but Petunia should not go under anesthesia, and to be quite honest, at this point, it doesn’t really matter. She determined that Petunia likely has a brain tumor or brain stem disease. But unfortunately, that is not the biggest issue going on.” The neurologist took a look at her as a courtesy, because all the vets here could tell this was not the Petunia we knew. “Petunia’s heart disease has rapidly progressed,” she began, “and it does not look good. This vet had cared for her during many of her other emergencies. When her fur started shedding profusely and she stopped being able to walk without balance issues, I brought her to a cardiologist at a hospital in New York City, wondering if her heart issues were to blame. Due to her past medical history, she was not a good candidate for anesthesia, a necessary component of CT scans and MRIs. I did every noninvasive test I could-EKGs, echocardiograms, etc. She started sleeping all the time she had periods of confusion she looked all-around depressed. Every vet I brought her to could find nothing in her tests or blood work that indicated cause for concern, but I knew my pet, and I knew she was sick. In February, nearly 10 years after she was first placed in my arms, I instinctively felt something was severely wrong with my French bulldog, Petunia.
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