Kokadoke, who according to the Dearborn Animal Shelter was about 12 but according to Wendy could have been older since shelters fudge on ages, had had a rough few weeks.
She visited the vet just after Christmas and was diagnosed with hip dysplasia, basically losing control of her right hip. She became a daily drug user and the vet told us she’d have good days and bad.
Unfortunately, it went downhill from there. Two weeks ago, I Skyped her in an effort to cheer her up and make me feel better. Unfortunately, neither one of those happened. In the past when I’ve Skyped her, she has jumped up in whatever parent’s lap had the headphones and looked all around, trying to find her momma. She’s known it’s me.
Not this time. She was sad and lethargic, and watching her trying to stand up made me cry. Hardwood floors aren’t kind when you’re trying to drag yourself up.
And it got worse. I called on a weekend, I think, and by Thursday the next week Daddy emailed and said Koke had lost the use of both her legs. Already, she had to be lifted on and off the bed and this just made it worse. She couldn’t drag herself farther than the porch. He said it was time.
After going back and forth with Zippy and Wendy, I finally gave the OK.
But once there, Kocur, still in the car, fought being muzzled, so Daddy figured she wasn’t ready yet. We got a new breath of hope when the vet later suggested a laser treatment, sort of like chiro, that had done wonders for other dogs.
They offered a package deal and we opted to try it on Saturday. Turns out, Kokey had two herniated disks (I am not sure about the hip dysplasia, but this time she had X-rays) and went through the first round of what we thought would be a package of six.
But it didn’t take. She got substantially worse (even turning down bacon) and on Monday my parents took her in. She didn’t fight this time and went quickly. She was ready.
For a mere $61, you can off your best friend. Not a comfort.
Obviously, I am upset, not only because she’s gone and I’ll never see her again, but because I wasn’t there when she needed me.
But she would have forgiven me. Dogs are like that. Whatever you do, they love you unconditionally. And they have lousy memories for bad things their people do to them.
Like send them to live with their grandparents when you’re working 70 hours a week or go to Morocco for PC. Doesn’t matter. You come back, your best friend forgives you.
I've had "Love Me Like My Dog" going through my head for a week.
I found Kocur on Petfinder.com, which is a fantastic site. I searched for “beagle,” but Kocur wasn’t so much a beagle. She was nothing but a pound dog, a Detroit stray.
When I was hunting for a pal, I visited her first. Not seeing the “do not open cages” sign, I saw her and joined her, playing catch with a ball she had. Sold, I was.
But I had to think about it, and alert David, my roommate at the time, we were getting a new housemate. I remember I got home and sent out emails with her Petfinder link, saying this was going to be my baby.
I don’t remember who it was, but someone replied saying something like, “Oh, you already got her; I see the ‘adopted’ banner on the page.’”
NOOOOO! I hadn’t. Someone *else* came after me and stole my dog.
I mourned Young Yeller. She was the one for me, and I knew it.
A week or so later, the Dearborn Animal Shelter folks called me, telling me she’d been brought back, was I still interested.
Of course I was! I headed out there right after work, not even bothering to ask *why* she’d been brought back.
When I got there, I saw my baby, all sad in a case bearing a sign that said “Beware, Bad Dog” or something like that. Turns out, she’d bitten someone and had been returned. She was going to be put down then had I not come for her.
That night, we played fetch and hung out. Oh, and I took her walking and she not only nipped someone but also got bit by some other dog. I carried her home because she was scared.
She came named as Kaycee, but no way was that going to stay. I needed a “K” name and a colleague suggested Kocur. It fit, although I didn’t know it at the time.
When I tried to enroll her at obedience school, she attacked the teacher. When I alerted Joe Kocur to this (because I knew somehow he’d find out --*cough* Duff *cough*), he laughed all the way down the hall at Joe Louis Arena, saying *he’d* never been convicted.
Kocur’s first weekend with me, we went to Red Wings camp in Traverse City and I freaked her out because I was screaming at whatever FSU football game was on TV in the hotel room.
She got her payback, though. When I left her with my roommate (different roommate, Scott was clueless) on another FSU football weekend, he reported that she had been “great” all weekend and had “stayed in her room” and “been a good girl.” Well, as I climbed the stairs to my room and turned the corner, she had DESTROYED the comforter and pillows. Vengeance was hers, for sure.
I bought her a kennel, foolishly thinking that she’d like her new bed. She loved her new bed, but it wasn’t the kennel -- she opted for my bed instead. I’d come home and she’d be *inside* the sheets, her head on my pillow.
As soon as I'd leave for work, she'd run back up the stairs and go back to sleep, a fact I'd suspected for awhile in Detroit and confirmed one day when I forgot something and had to run back home to get it.
Toys were a big part of her world, starting with my stuffed animal tiger rug, which became hers. My youthful Missy K O’Cur photos are in Florida, but I have a great shot of her chewing that thing, which was bigger than she was (at least at the time).
I’d bring her toys when I came down for FSU games. She went for the noses first. Her little blonde brain had a lot of trouble processing the elephant, though it delighted her. She had a thing for pulling the plastic eyes off, too. And I'll probably still be unearthing stuffed animal carcasses in the Havana backyard 10 years from now.
Like lots of dogs, she was terrified of thunder. The Fourth of July and New Year’s Eve were the most-feared days of her life, followed by thunderstormy afternoons. Lord, try having a 34-pound monster sitting on your chest in bed and under the covers as she pants straight into your face. Not fun.
Even though Kocur hasn’t been physically with me since I have been in Jakarta, I miss her. And I know when I go back to Florida, it’s going to start all over again. I’ll see her chair and cry again, and probably will find her toys under this piece of furniture or that one for years to come.
She would remember where the toys were, too. I’d come back and tell her to “get Toy” (this was a proper noun) and she’d drag something back a few minutes later. Or she’d just walk over to some piece of furniture and stare under it, then at me, willing me to get down on all fours and fight the dust (and knee pain) to fish out something she’d left there three months earlier.
In that way, she was bright. In others, well, let’s just say she must have taken after her father. Not something she got from my side of the family, for sure.
I’d stand hidden in the bathroom, out of sight between two rooms in Havana. I’d call her and she’d run from one room to the other, trying to find me. No matter how many times I did this, she would never think to look in the bathtub, where I was standing.
I could go on and on, but I won’t. The screen’s too blurry. I miss my old yeller dog.
I am thankful that both my parents took such good care of her, with Daddy sitting with her that last weekend and Zippy not minding (or pretending to mind) that Kokey pooped in the bed. Daddy also took the photos posted, so I have some of her last days. Wendy’s pretty much been counseling me through this, too.
And I am glad to know real pet people who know what I am going through. Some folks just don’t get it. I’m really glad I know people who do.
Thank you for indulging me.
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