Bosco arrived in our home on a not-so-cold but cosy evening in the month of April. He was a tiny brown-and-white Sheprador with the most innocent and emotive eyes that I had ever seen. Despite his good looks and immense persuasion from my younger son, I wasn’t willing to accept him into our house. My reason was simple; I hated furry and cuddly animals of all kinds. I found them weird. I found them uncomfortable, and I hated touching them.
I didn’t know all this was about to change.
And so begins the story of our journey, or perhaps my journey, with Bosco.
Bosco was our neighbours’ pet. He was a tiny little puppy of ten weeks when my seven-year-old son decided to take him in after our neighbours saw how desperately he wanted one. Bosco was one of six pups in the litter.
“You won’t know how to care for him. He’s just a baby,” I told him.
“But you’ll help me, won’t you? And you’ll teach me how to take care of little Boshki, right?” My son looked at me with immense conviction.
“Little Boshki,” I sighed, “is just a tiny puppy. He needs a lot of attention.”
“Let’s take him in,” said my microbiologist husband, looking at the little puppy that had just been left with strangers and was trying to squeeze himself through the small gap beneath the corrugated iron gate.
“He’s going to hurt himself. Why don’t you just send him back?” I retorted.
“Mom, please let him stay,” I could hear two voices echo in unison.
“Fine then, but don’t expect me to look after him. You know I don’t like pets. Bosco is your responsibility now.”
I left them with huge grins on their faces.
I’d have nothing to do with the little chap, however innocent he might look, I thought as I went indoors.
Over the next few days, I could see a flurry of activities around the house. Bosco wouldn’t be allowed indoors, so they built a kennel for him. It was pretty good to look at, I must confess. Very roomy as well for a puppy of his size. My family clearly had long-term plans.
I smiled, though I wouldn’t let them see that I was happy with whatever they were doing.
Next, the little puppy got a brand-new leash and adorable chew toys. Pedigree food appeared on my kitchen rack soon after.
The little chap was being taken care of appropriately.
I was happy for my younger son, who had begun developing a sense of responsibility since Bosco’s arrival.
Bosco loved to jump and hug, and I actually hated it.
Every time I stepped out of the car on my way back from the hospital, he would be there, waiting to jump into my lap and take a closer look at me. I tried my best to keep him away. Yet his playful ways slowly gained entry into my heart, though little did I know how much harder it was going to get.
“We’ll have to take him to the vet for his scheduled vaccination,” said my husband as I entered the bedroom after a long day in the ICU.
“Let’s do it over the weekend. I have two night shifts this week,” I told him. “Besides, you’ll be busy as well.”
“Fine then,” he replied.
Bosco became sick the very next day.
My husband suspected a viral infection.
We rushed him to the vet, who confirmed our worst fears.
“It is Parvovirus,” the vet said after listening to the symptoms. “You should have got him vaccinated earlier.”
Bosco had been passing blood in his stools, and very soon he would begin losing appetite and vomiting blood, since that was how the virus manifested itself.
“Unfortunately, we do not have the facilities for your pet here. All I can do is give him some symptomatic treatment and hope he improves.”
Bosco received an injection and we took him home.
The drive back was a quiet one as the little puppy whimpered softly in the back seat. He wasn’t his usual playful self.
Oh, how I blamed myself for having brought him home, and how I wished that his vaccination hadn’t been delayed even for a day.
I uttered a silent prayer.
Bosco did improve with the medications and returned to his normal self for a few hours, after which he began vomiting blood again. He would come out of his kennel, go to his designated corner to relieve himself, and then quietly return back. My heart cried at his agony.
Even in that fragile condition, he managed to keep his kennel clean, though a peculiar smell had begun coming from him.
If he didn’t stop vomiting, or if his bowel movements didn’t improve, it would be a sure sign of his impending death.
My little son became restless. I couldn’t do a thing about it.
Our neighbour came to visit us and told us that two of his puppies had become sick with Parvovirus as well. The vet had apparently told him that only serum from a dog who had recovered from Parvo could save them.
We lived in a place with little facility for pets.
I knew Bosco didn’t stand a chance.
Bosco kept vomiting blood for the next few hours. We took him once again to the vet, who gave him injections to control the vomiting.
It would work for a few hours, and then Bosco would return to his sick self once again.
He avoided all water, and even if he took a few sips, it would trigger intolerable retching. We tried to feed him, but he refused. His chew toys lay piled up in a corner. The Frisbee remained hidden between the shrubs as we slowly watched little Boshki deteriorate.
“Why don’t you just put an IV line?” I asked the vet. “He needs to be rehydrated.”
“I am sorry, but we don’t have the facilities for that here. It’s a small locality.”
I watched him push another injection into the little pup’s thigh. Bosco couldn’t even wince anymore.
Maybe he had accepted the inevitable.
We took him home once again.
My husband left him inside the kennel on a soft blanket.
And we left him there to die.
It was that unexplained helplessness that comes over you when you are faced with something you can do absolutely nothing about.
The next morning, I woke up very early with a heavy heart. I wanted to check on him one last time. It was hard to believe that Bosco had ceased to exist.
I tiptoed downstairs and peeked into the kennel.
He stirred and pushed a paw towards me.
I rushed upstairs and woke my husband.
“What is it?” he asked.
“He’s alive. He’s still alive!”
My husband threw away the quilt and followed me downstairs.
He gently lifted the little puppy and placed him on the veranda adjoining the house. The strange pungent smell surrounding him had intensified.
Bosco looked emaciated but very much alive.
Hubby looked at me with a strange expression in his eyes.
“What?” I asked.
“Can’t you secure an IV line for Bosco? He’s been given a second chance.”
“I treat humans. I’ve never treated a furry animal,” I replied in a tone that didn’t sound convincing enough.
“But what if you tried?” he said.
“The site where he received the last injection is already shaved. Just try. We might be able to save him after all.”
“Okay,” I finally said.
We donned gowns, surgical gloves, and obtained a size 24 Angiocath.
He held the little puppy firmly by the thigh while I searched for a vein suitable enough for cannulation.
I located one exactly where Bosco’s leg had been shaved. I took a deep breath and pushed in the Angiocath, my hands trembling all the while.
It failed to go past the skin.
His skin was unimaginably hard.
My Angiocath lay twisted and broken in my hands.
“I’ll get a bigger one,” Hubby said.
“Yes, I guess so. We should be able to get it through.”
I tried again at the same spot.
This time it worked.
Dark blood poured out at the hub.
We had secured the IV line.
A smile crossed our faces.
I mentally calculated the fluid requirements of the little pup, and we started him on IV fluids.
I fixed the Angiocath firmly with layers of adhesive tape.
“It must not come out. This is our only chance to help him.”
Next followed various intravenous injections based upon my experience with humans in the ICU. There was no comparison, but as long as the medications worked, we weren’t complaining.
We spent hours taking turns holding his feeble paw in our gloved hands as fluids and medications rushed into his bloodstream.
We simply hoped he would make it.
At this stage, he required intensive care treatment, but this was the best we could do.
Two days later, he still didn’t show signs of improvement, and that was when we decided to add antibiotics.
Bosco still refused all food. He would take tiny sips of water when thirst forced him to, only to vomit blood again moments later.
It was my night shift at the ICU.
“Take care of the IV line,” I told my husband, “and please make sure he receives the IV medications on time.”
“Don’t worry about it. Just come back a bit early tomorrow because I have to leave for work.”
“I’ll try to, but you know it won’t be possible. Just take care.”
I wished them luck as I climbed into the car.
“How’s Bosco doing?” I asked Hubby later over the phone.
“He’s improving. The antibiotics seem to have helped him. He was really active today and wouldn’t keep still while I pushed the fluids and medications.”
“Just take extra care of the IV line, you know.”
“Yeah, don’t worry. How’s your shift?”
“Hectic as usual,” I replied. “We have eight intubated patients, and two of them are really very sick.”
“I was wondering; what if we added some vitamins to his IV fluids over the next few days? I’m sure it would help.”
“Yes, we could try that.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow. Good night.”
He hung up.
I reached home past lunchtime the next day after a sleepless night at work. One of our patients had succumbed.
With a heavy heart, I went to check on Bosco, who definitely looked better today.
“The diarrhoea is gone,” said my husband, who had followed me there. He had taken the day off. A brand-new Angiocath had now been secured carefully onto the other leg.
“He pushed out the first one,” Hubby grinned, pointing towards the leg where the previous Angiocath had been.
“You didn’t tell me about it.”
“Never mind. I secured another one.”
“You’ve done a great job,” I smiled at him.
Over the next twenty-four hours, Bosco stopped vomiting and even tried to pull out the IV cannula. We added vitamins, and his appetite improved gradually over the next few days.
It was with immense relief and satisfaction that we finally removed the IV cannula after almost a week.
Bosco was ready to eat, drink, jump, and play again.
We took him to the vet for a routine examination a week later.
The vet had no words.
“Out of the sixteen puppies that came down with Parvo this month, yours is the only one that survived.”
We smiled, tears visible in the corners of our eyes. It was a strange rush of happiness that suddenly flooded my heart.
“His serum is now a lifesaver for other pups who are down with Parvo. Isn’t that wonderful news?”
“Yes,” I simply replied. “Of course it is.”
After this incident, Bosco healed rapidly and became even more attached to the family. He would jump at the sound of my car horn and pounce on me, demanding cuddles. I would pat him on the head and back, all the while wondering if I would ever be able to forget what he had put us through.
The very next day, I decided to return him to his original owner.
No amount of coaxing could change my decision.
It is a love that is poorly understood.
The moment you realize that you could lose everything you hold dear, you choose to walk away before it can break you completely.
So I gave him up.
Last week, exactly two years after that episode, Bosco came to visit us.
I knew he could smell me.
He rushed around the whole house, scratching and banging his paws against the front door while I sat behind that closed door, unable to look at him once again.
Maybe that’s how life works.
I have made a promise to myself.
I will never keep another pet again in my life.
It was the closest I ever came to heartbreak.
So long, Boshki…