Time

One of our first trips to Japan, on which I’d procured a minimal understanding of Japanese words, I remember telling Seri that it seemed as though Japanese people really loved talking about food. In fact, food- and drink-related words were for whatever reason the first I’d learned, and it just so happened that I’d pick them out of sentences more than any other words. There’s a term for something like this: the Baader-Meinhof phenomenon. Maybe there’s another term for it when learning a new language, I’m not sure.

Of course, Japanese people talk about a lot more than just food. In the past month, my head had been swimming with a wide range of topics, from golf, to official documents, but none more than time.

“He was fine 3 weeks ago."

“Here are the results from 2 weeks ago."

“He hasn’t eaten in 4 days."

“The levels from yesterday are much higher."

“The way he’s breathing, he might only have 24 hours, or fewer."

“The sedation will take 5 minutes."

“It will be over in 2 minutes."

“Takai.” That’s another one I’ve learned—not time-related, mind you—that I’ve been hearing a lot of. It means “expensive,” or “high.” And “jinzou”—I just learned that one recently. It means “kidney.”

We said goodbye to Einstein at 10:30 PM last night.

There’s a stone in my throat as I type this. I try to swallow it but I can’t, and it stays there. It’s him. It’ll go down when it’s ready, and I’m OK with that.

When we started thinking about moving to Japan, one of the biggest questions was Einstein. He was 14 at the time, and we weren’t sure how his health would affect our ability to move here. Japan requires a 6-month quarantine, so he would be at least 15 before we moved. Fortunately, our veterenarian in Oakland was very helpful and supportive, and with the incredible amount of planning Seri did, the trip here went almost seamlessly.

We knew about Einstein’s kidneys in Oakland. During a check-up earlier this year, our vet had noted that some of his levels were elevated, and recommended a supplement for him to take every day. Still, the levels weren’t cause for immediate concern, but we wanted to make sure we kept things under control.

In Japan, we took his levels again during a check-up and they noted that they were higher than the previous test, but only marginally. Still, they suggested putting him on a kidney friendly diet, since the supplement we used to give him in America wasn’t as readily available out here.

At first, Ein seemed to eat the new food just fine. The doctor mentioned it can be pretty bland, so it wasn’t uncommon for dogs to reject it. We might consider adding a “topper” (more appetizing stew-like food) onto it if he started eating less of it than normal. This happened after a few days, and we started looking into buying other types of food, even going so far as to find the same food we fed him in America. Some he’d eat in the morning, others not at all. We tried to stay away from “people food,” but he seemed to really enjoy Seri’s mom’s cousin’s home-baked bread—we were just happy he was eating.

Some mornings, he’d have more energy due to eating well the previous day. Others were more difficult, him standing outside in the snow, tired from the lack of regular nutrition.

On Friday, we took him to the vet to get an understanding of what was going on. Previously, she’d told us it might just be the stress of the move, which made sense. It’s apparently not uncommon for dogs to get stressed out when moving to a new home (check), changing food (check), or even when their owners’ schedules change (check). It made sense, but we wanted to make sure. That’s when we found out not only were Ein’s kidney levels higher than they’d been two weeks prior, the numbers the vet’s machine reported for two separate metrics were the highest it could report. In short, his kidneys were failing or had already failed, and short of a transplant and/or a lifetime of dialysis—neither of which seemed remotely possible—it was only a matter of time.

The vet gave him a shot of nutrients in the back of his neck and sent us on our way. We spent Friday and Saturday with him, heartbroken but not entirely sure we were ready to take the next step, trying to coax him to eat anything we could. His appetite had failed him. All he wanted to do was sleep.

On Sunday morning, we went back to get another nutrient shot and to figure things out. Overnight, Einstein had started panting and we were concerned he was feeling even worse. The vet again gave him the shot, but let us know that in her experience, dogs in this state don’t generally survive longer than a week.

It crushed me. I spent the better part of the car ride back breaking down.

We got back home and sat on the floor in front of the couch on either side of his bed, stroking and kissing him. We watched some shows. Cooking and such, I don’t really remember the details. By the evening, his panting had grown louder and more hoarse. We called the after-hours vet.

In Hakodate, there isn’t one 24-hour emergency vet; various offices in the city share the responsibility. You call a phone number and are told which office is currently on-call, then you call that one and make sure they’re open. When we called, we were told that because the on-call vet hadn’t seen Ein before, he wasn’t certain he’d be able to do what needed to be done—he’d need to see him first. I was having a hard time thinking about Ein suffering through the night if he couldn’t help us.

Uncle Toshi drove us—he really liked Einstein, cheerfully petting him and laughing whenever he saw us out walking him. It being a late Sunday night, the roads were empty. Snow was gently falling. He drove slowly just in case.

The vet’s office was a lonely light on the street, about 25 minutes from our hosue. I had hoped our normal vet was on-call that night, since she knew Einstein’s condition and would have made the decision. As it turned out, the vet reviewing his numbers and hearing his breathing was enough to make the decision—he wouldn’t have lasted much longer otherwise.

The drive home was silent. I could almost hear the snow falling onto the car. Einstein sat between me and Seri in his buggy’s detachable carrier. We stroked his fur as we’ve always done when he sleeps near us. It felt entirely the same, and different.

Back at the house, Seri and I went to bed almost immediately. I had no more to give the day, and even though I wasn’t exactly tired, I couldn’t think of anything else to do. I went upstairs to bed and cried, and slept.

It’s afternoon on Monday, now. He’s in the house still, still. I pet him and my instinct is to assume he’ll jump up from his nap like he always does, but he keeps sleeping. His rest is deserved.

I’ll miss his “dance” after dinner where he’d rub his face along the couch and floor, either cleaning it or rubbing it in, I’m not quite sure. He was always happy before and after eating.

I’ll miss running around the house with him after getting home from work, him chasing after me, nipping at my ankles as we run from room to room, Seri filming it on her camera to share with friends and family.

I’ll miss the weekend mornings where I’d wake up hours before Seri, leave the bedroom door open, he’d find me and we’d share time alone on the floor—he’d long hated being on the couch for some reason—while I sipped my coffee and relaxed. My leg his pillow, him smiling, content.

I miss him terribly.