Page 112 of Roughing the Player
Kaylee carefully wraps a hand around one of Butch’s good legs. “I love you, Butch. Please don’t die. Please.” Her voice turns upbeat, as if she’s trying to cheer him up. “I’ll get you those treats you wanted. I’ll buy you oodles of them.” But Butch doesn’t respond. He just lies there unconscious.
Ellie bends over him and whispers into his ear. “Butch, I’ll make you a deal. You don’t die, and we’ll all live together as a family. Plus, you’ll have a new baby to love. You’d like that. Wouldn’t you, boy?”
I don’t say anything. Caught between the joy from hearing her words and the agony from seeing my injured best bud, doubt I could speak.
After a technician brings us chairs so we can sit down, we remain by Butch’s side, whispering words of encouragement, hoping he’ll make it through. He doesn’t get worse, but he doesn’t get better, either. Finally after two hours, I call it. “Go home. I’ll stay behind.”
“But,” Ellie says.
“I don’t want to leave,” Kaylee protests.
I hug her to me, drop my chin on her head while glancing at Ellie. “Think of the baby, Kaylee. Your mother needs her rest.”
With her breath hitching, Kaylee nods through her tears.
Coming to her feet, Ellie turns sad eyes to me. “Call us if there’s any change.”
“I will.”
After they whisper some last words of encouragement to our boy, I walk them out front where Ruth waits for them. “How is he?”
“Hanging in there.” My words come out rusty as if I forgot how to talk. “Can you take them home? I’m staying behind.” Ruth is wise enough to read between the lines. I don’t want them here if Butch passes away.
“Of course.” She squeezes my hand. “It’s in God’s hands now, Brock.”
I return to the post-surgery room and drop into the chair. With no one around to witness my grief, I allow the tears to flow. I’m not a religious man. Never bothered with church and such. But today, I pray with all my heart that God will heal my beautiful boy. And then I rest my head next to his body to feel the rise and fall of his chest. If he loses his battle, his loving heart will cease to beat.
As time passes, I whisper to him. “How you doing, boy? How you doing, champ?” The vet drops in to check his vitals. The technician drifts by to adjust his drip.
An hour passes and another. Close to three in the morning, his heart speeds up. Is that a good sign or bad?
God, don’t let it be bad. Needing to do something, anything, I break out into a chorus of “Who Let the Dogs Out?” And miracle of miracles, his tail moves a little. Encouraged by his response, I keep it up, at first softly and then more loudly. By four o’clock, I’m hoarse and so, so tired, I rest my head against him.
“Woof.”
I come awake in a rush. Was that? Did he?
“Woof.”
My heart soars. That’s the sound he makes when he’s dreaming. “Doc. Doc!”
The vet comes running. “What’s wrong?”
“He woofed. That’s a good sign, right?”
The vet listens to Butch’s heart, checks his vital signs, and stands up, a look of wonder on his face. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
“Is he”—I swallow hard—“Is he better?”
“Yes. He is.”
“Thank you, God.”
I pick up the phone to call Ellie, but before I do, my cell rings. It’s her. “How is he?” Going by the trembling in her voice, she expects the worst.
“He woofed at me.”
“He did?” Her tone’s perked up.
