If you are looking for a story that leaves you feeling as if life is all sweet wine and beautifully scented roses, this is NOT it. This is also not a Readers Digest Condensed version, so I’ve put the punch line up front for those of you who skim and just want to know how a story ends. Our sweet, loving, loyal, and brave little dog Mocha was killed Friday morning by a rattlesnake, while right next to me. She most likely saved me from getting bit. It was frightening. It was messy. It was confusing. It was terrifying. It was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day, and my apologies to Judith Viorst but Alexanders' Day was nothing in comparison.
I was working in the yard as I often do in the early morning hours here in the Northern Sacramento Valley. Hummingbirds were humming and dipping into the dew laden daylilies edging the garden path. Doves were gently cooing from their perches in the drooping olives trees across the yard. My 11-pound Doxie mix Mocha was at my side as usual. A few low-lying long leaf bushes were less than 2 feet behind me as I worked cleaning a nearby area. Mocha was between me and the little bushes, resting in the still gentle sun of the new day, tired from our already completed sunrise walk. I finished the clipping task in front of me and lifted a last rake full of trimmings to the trash can. A fence lizard skittled across the patios end near us and Mocha rose. She took a couple steps, and nosed into the little bushes behind me, then jumped back very slightly as is her common lizard inspecting behavior. I bent down and attached her leash on as we were going to head to the front yard, my hands literally brushing in the little bushes at our feet. “Let’s go sweetie”, said I. On her first step, Mocha stumbled. Oblivious, I encouraged her to come along. She then attempted to follow me but only managed a couple wobbly steps. A strong sense of alarm went off in my brain, bright lights flashing in my eyes, my ears were ringing, as the hairs on my arms stood and my throat began to tighten with fear. I instinctively grabbed my rake and stuck it into the bushes as I reached for Mocha. A soft rattling sounded much like a gentle rustle of dried leaves caused me to gasp. Within seconds a now full panic set into my body as I tried to focus on getting Mocha towards the house. Once to the door I ran to get a blanket, grabbed my phone and called my son Nick. Mocha was now lying down and vomiting. A racing, yet somehow also slow motion feeling of blurriness enveloped me as simultaneously I cried into the phone and ran to the car, dog and blanket wrapped in my arms.
Mochas' usual vet is a 25-minute drive if one hits the traffic lights right. A closer option was 5 minutes away if I punched it. I absolutely exceeded the speed limit and broke several other traffic laws. This vet had never seen Mocha, simply because we had felt more comfortable with Dr. Tom and chose to make the drive for the commonplace vet needs. This day however, the obvious choice was the nearest. I prayed that this office had the anti-venom in stock. As I haphazardly parked, I realized it was not quite 8:00 a.m. The door was locked. In the small parking lot, a woman whose description I do not recall leaned against her car door looking at her phone and barely raised an eyebrow at me as I shook the locked door. A man standing on the curb in front of another vehicle answered, “I don’t know” to my obviously frightened question, "What time do they open?”. I am sure I was not calm in the least, but this guys' tone was so nasty that I immediately awarded him the forever title of “Mean Man”. As I held Mocha in my arms, Mean Man and Lady Who Could Not Care Any Less both gave me a look of annoyance. I saw a shadow on the glass door as it shook once, then opened slightly. I grabbed the door, swung it open and yelled, “Please help”. Mean Man, who could also be a stand in for Captain Obvious, stepped toward me and stated sarcastically, “They are open now”. The word "asshat" appeared in my cartoon talk bubble, though I did not verbalize it. At least I don’t think I did.
The following 5 minutes were filled with a fury of Mocha being taken from me by a concerned vet tech as she asked pertinent questions and gave me information. “Are you sure it was a rattlesnake?”, “How long has it been?” Pointing to an open examination room someone directed me to “Sit in there and we’ll get her stabilized.” I sat, I cried, I felt my son Nicks arm around my shoulder. What I think was no more than 10 minutes and felt like 1000, another tech walked into the claustrophobic space and laid Mocha on the exam table, still wrapped in her coverings from home. I could hear her words, though I was having trouble processing. “I am so sorry. It wouldn’t have mattered if you’d gotten her here in 5 minutes. She was bit in the face, and it just went too fast. The venom most likely moved quickly to her brain. I am so sorry.” I remember saying I would take Mocha home and bury her. The obviously saddened yet practiced vet tech asked if I would like her to “package Mocha up” and I remember thinking the question sounded so cold and uncaring. I answered that I would take her home just as she was.
Sweet little Mocha. A little dog with a big heart who had joined our family 7 1/2 years ago when she was just 12 weeks old as a rescue. Mocha, who had brought us laughter and tears, countless joys and unconditional love, now lent a sorrow that felt frighteningly deep. Mocha was gone. I already felt the reality that daily life would be immensely different without her. Her absence was already physically painful. Sorrow and tears cloaked the short drive home. Mocha would be buried down by the giant bamboo she loved to play near. We will be lost without her here.
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