"How Do I Live Without You" My beloved Cheech

Born: September 19, 2000			Died: November 15, 2009
	June, 2001	September, 2008

After I lost Abbott, I didn't think I would ever want another dachshund (I already had Stella). He was too special, too irreplaceable. Yet, within 2 months, I was looking for a puppy. I missed him so much, I had to have another one. Not to take his place, which was impossible, but one to honor the love I had for him.

On the way to meet yet more puppies, a plumbing truck dropped some fittings off of their van. Right onto my truck. I'd already regretted not bringing a camera (this was pre-phone w/camera days). One would of thought it would have made sense to take pictures of the different puppies I was seeing. It would surely have been great to have had one to take a picture of the van. It didn't seem to be a very positive beginning as I entered the town where the breeders lived. I know this isn't really important as to Cheech's story. Now, though, I look at the little dents on my hood, and remember my first meeting with my future son.

The breeders weren't backyard breeders. They showed, as well, and had champions to their credit. Well, I didn't really care about the "champions" part, since I was looking for a pet. However, this shows they care about the breed and its betterment.

I met two pups that evening. One was, oh, I don't remember, around 10 weeks. The other was 9 months. Both were, of course, absolutely adorable. We rolled around on the floor together, playing. I was in love. Moreso than with any other puppies I'd seen. I made a "psst, psst" sound through my teeth and the older of the two came over and put his head on my neck, giving me what I called a "neck hug". Abbott had always done this. Again, I knew this was not to be a replacement, but another in a line of dogs for me. However, how could I not want this dog with all my heart?

I drove home, knowing that this was where I would be getting a new pup from. As is my nature, I wanted them both. Common sense overcame heartstrings, though. I decided on the older, neck-hugging one. Cheech came home with me a week later. It was a relatively long drive and he was such a good boy. No crying, no car sickness. Just mostly slept all the way. This was to become standard for him. By the time I backed out of the driveway anytime we went anywhere, he was dozing.

By the time he'd been home for an hour, it was if he'd always been part of the family. Stella and Frankie both took to him and never showed any jealousy or aggression. Whew! However, this 9 month old pup turned these two senior dogs into pups themselves. Neither had ever done any inappropriate chewing. Ever. Cheech taught them the fine art of chewing whatever might be handy. Being as I had nothing of any real value, other than these 3, there was never any great loss. We dealt with it.

I made a ramp for Stella and Cheech to use to get on and off the bed (Frankie wasn't so much a "bed dog" - more "under the bed"). I didn't even have to teach the boy how to use it. Soon he was running up and down it as if his tail was on fire! *laugh* The way he'd get it to rocking sometimes, I'm amazed that it never tipped over. Good construction, I guess. He'd do that same wild running around if I lay back on the bed. I'll tell you, that nose could hurt! But I knew he felt good when he was doing that. That he was happy. And that made me happy.

As time went by, Cheech learned the fine art of couch potatoing, unfortunately. He became seriously overweight. As I think back, I'm lucky that I didn't lose him then. I finally gained the wisdom to limit his food, as neither he nor I were much into exercise. Slowly, but surely, he lost that extra weight. I was proud when he got under 30 pounds, a weight he maintained the rest of his life.

When we lost Stella in October of 2008, Cheech started having separation anxiety issues. Some days weren't too bad. Others, as I was leaving for work, I heard him howling. I felt so guilty leaving him. I suppose I, too, was having issues. We'd been together for over 7 years and he was the last dog I had. I feared that something would happen while I was not around to be with him. Yet, he was only 8 years old. A youngster. He'd been healthy all his life.

In July of 2009, he had to have his rabies shot. When we went, he also had a sore on his foot which needed treatment. A couple of shots, a bandage for a week and antibiotics. Problem solved. In August, he had an infected tooth. More treatment. Later that same month, I thought maybe the infection came back, as his lip was swollen in almost the exact same way as before. Turned out to apparently be a bug bite, as a couple of pills took care of it. September came. He still wasn't really himself. He hadn't been since the first episode in July. Back to the vet yet again. Watching him walk, his doctor decided he'd tweeked his back. Another shot, more pills.

What was going on? Every month it was something different. He'd never had such problems. Did all of this contribute to his later difficulties? Were they all, somehow, indications of what was to come? I don't know. Probably never will never know. I just know we were both unhappy during this time. On September 19th, he turned a mere 9 years old.

Late in the evening of Oct. 13, 2009, I saw that he was breathing heavily. More disturbing, his heart was beating so fast, so hard, that I could see it through his chest. I went online, searching for those symptoms. I found yet another symptom. White gums. I hadn't thought to look. There was absolutely no pink in his.

Off we went to the emergency clinic. After tests, and X-rays, and a transfusion, the doctor came to me and said that Cheech's PCV was 10. It should be, at least, 35. Something was causing him to lose red blood cells. Four days later, he came home. With a diagnosis of I.M.H.A. (Immune Mediated Hemolytic Anemia), also known as A.I.H.A. (AutoImmune Hemolytic Anemia). Basically, his own immune system was destroying his red blood cells. A bagful of drugs came home with him. The goal was to treat the symptoms while turning off his immune system. His PCV was 20 that Saturday.

When we went back the next Monday, his PCV had actually risen to 23, without a transfusion (he'd had two while in the hospital). This was good news. Very good news, I thought. However, by the next Monday, Oct. 26th, it had dropped back down to 18. A bone marrow aspirate (BMA) was scheduled for the 28th. By then, his PCV was down to 15. So, he was given yet another transfusion before the BMA. His PCV went back up to 27 and he did well during the BMA.

He came back home on Thursday. While he didn't have a lot of energy, he seemed more himself than he had in a long time. His eating was sporadic, but he always eventually ate everything. On Monday, the 2nd of November, his PCV was down to 25, which was actually quite good, considering. By the 9th, it was down to 23. Still not great, but, it wasn't dropping as rapidly as before. During all this, I timed his respiration rate, I took his pulse, I looked at his gums at least once an hour. I figured I was probably driving him nuts.

The morning of the 14th, Cheech's respiration rate was, at one count, 49 breaths per minute. More than twice what it should be. His temperature was 97.5. His eyes were afraid. His gums pale. I wasn't able to take his pulse, as his breathing was so rapid and shallow. We took off, once again to the hospital. More testing. He had aspiration pneumonia, due to megaesophagus. I visited that evening and he seemed pretty much the same as earlier that day. He was on IV antibiotics, in a heated cage. But he wagged his tail at me a couple of times. I spoke with a doctor who felt that we could pull him through this newest trial. I hated to leave him.

The next morning, they brought him out to me and he looked, if anything, worse. I took him out and he could barely walk. I thought he might collapse at any time. He managed a bowel movement and I picked him up and carried him back inside. I sat with him on my lap, talking to him, thinking that perhaps his time had come. Yet when I talked to the vet, she thought that we needed to give him more time. I was more than willing. At that point, though, he needed to be given oxygen. I gave him a kiss and they took him back to the treatment area. I went home.

I'd spent four weeks not wanting my phone to ring. I never got many calls. That afternoon, it rang. Cheech's heart had stopped. Per my previous instructions, they had started it again (I had thought about signing a DNR that morning - I'm glad I didn't). Should I come out there? "If you want to say good-bye."

I drove as quickly as I could. I couldn't stop crying. He was on a treatment table, hooked to a monitor, with a tube in his throat, a hideous yellow liquid draining from his lungs. His pulse was 150. Which went up to 180, briefly, as I spoke to him. I like to think that meant he knew I was with him. His eyes showed no recognition though.

Just that morning my mom and I had discussed the possibility that, even should he recover, he would never be the Cheech I had known. Same as some people are when they go through serious illnesses. When I saw him laying there, his eyes, I knew that this would be true. With a prayer for strength, the decision was made. Cheech went to the Rainbow Bridge at 2:23 p.m. on November 15, 2009.

We took our last journey together on the 21st. He went to the same place as Stella, Lasting Paws. It was hard, seeing him for the last time. Knowing I would never, ever again see this boy who had been so much of my heart. One of our traditions when he was with me in the truck was going through Taco Bell. On the way home, though not hungry, one last time we went together.



The story of The Rainbow Bridge (that's Cheech in the background)
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My favorite picture - so majestic, so handsome . . .

(Again, my "Thanks" to all my Internet friends who have been with me throughout this ordeal. For their support, their prayers, and their assistance)

Background music: "How Do I Live Without You"-Leanne Rimes - The first song I heard on the radio that dreadful Sunday afternoon