The Dog With Nine Lives by Della Galton Page A

shouted for Tony and phoned the vet.
    â€˜We can see her at 10.15 a.m.’ the receptionist said.
    â€˜I need to bring her now,’ I gasped. ‘I think she’s dying.’ I could hardly say the words. I felt terrible. Why on earth hadn’t I realised she was ill? Why had I made stupid assumptions about her being jealous? The guilt bit deep.
    Lindy couldn’t walk. She couldn’t even stand up. Tony carried her out to the car and we raced down to the vet’s.
    My little dog still managed a wag as we lifted her onto the table for Kate, our vet, who is one of the nicest people I know.
    â€˜I’m afraid this looks serious,’ Kate told us, having examined Lindy carefully. ‘I need to wait for the blood test results to be sure, but I suspect she has something called haemolytic anaemia.’
    Tony and I looked at her blankly.
    â€˜It is an auto-immune condition,’ she explained. ‘The white blood cells attack the red blood cells resulting in severe anaemia.’ Kate lifted up Lindy’s lip and showed us her gums.
    â€˜Look how pale she is. Her gums should be a healthy pink.’
    I nodded. I’d thought I’d known a lot about dogs but I hadn’t known this simple check.
    â€˜There are a number of causes,’ Kate went on. ‘Sometimes it’s sparked by an inoculation, but often we never find out why it’s happened.’
    â€˜Will she be OK?’ There was a huge ache in my throat and I was trying not to cry. I had a feeling I already knew the answer.
    â€˜I have to tell you that the prognosis is poor,’ she said, her eyes compassionate. ‘We will start treating her straight away. I won’t wait for the blood tests. I’m pretty sure she has this disease. I have actually seen four dogs with it recently.’
    â€˜What happened to the other dogs?’ Tony asked. ‘I’m afraid they all died. But that doesn’t mean Lindy will die.’ She stroked our dog’s head and she got another sad little wag in response. ‘She is a little fighter, aren’t you, my love.’
    For the next few days Lindy’s life hung in the balance. She was on a drip, being given steroids and fluids intravenously, but she wouldn’t eat anything. It was as though she was fading before our eyes.
    The animal hospital was a room lined with sturdy metal kennels, each with its own bedding and bowl of water. It was where animals recuperated after operations and where the very ill ones were kept under close observation. Lindy was the only occupant at that time, although she had plenty of company. The vet nurses knew her well and loved her, and either Tony or I went in to see her daily. We took her in treats to tempt her: fresh-cooked chicken and bits of beef or steak. I hand fed her like I’d done on the beach six years earlier. She ate very little – she wasn’t touching the food the vet nurses gave her either. Although she still managed to wag her tail.
    On the Friday evening Kate called me on the phone. ‘I think you should come in and see Lindy.’ Her voice was grave. ‘She is quite weak and she is not responding to treatment.’
    Although she didn’t say it I knew what she was telling me. My beautiful little dog had all but given up the battle. I would be going in to say my goodbyes.
    I took chicken as I always did, but this time Lindy didn’t even raise her head to sniff it. She just lay on her side although she had managed a weak little wag when she saw me. I couldn’t help myself. I kneeled in her kennel and I cried my heart out, my tears falling onto her soft coat.
    I thought of her as I’d first seen her, running on the beach, I thought of all the things she’d survived in her life: fending for herself and her pups on the beach; the stampeding cows; the river; the cancer; the night in the forest.
    Was this it? Had she had her last life? Was it all to end here in this sterile