The week Murphy gave extra kisses

When I wake each morning, I can count on three things: Marshall bringing me coffee in bed, Murphy cuddling up next to me for a belly rub, and Ivy lunging for my face as if she’d perish if she didn’t lick my mouth.

Whether I have an early meeting or it’s a lazy Saturday morning, the routine doesn’t waver. The English language fails to describe how much that ritual grounds me and prepares me for whatever is to come that day.

Then came the week before the Fourth of July.

As you have probably surmised, Murphy and Ivy are our canine children. We rescued both within a month of each other in the early days of the world shutdown in 2020. Marshall and I were locked down at home during those first months of the COVID-19 pandemic, giving us plenty of quality time with our new kids.

They weren’t our first Shih Tzus. We were lucky to have also been the parents of Kaci and Doby. Kaci passed away about six months before we adopted Murphy and Ivy, an excruciating loss tempered only by the knowledge that she lived a very full, long, well-loved life. She was nearly 18 when she took her last breath. Doby was only a year younger and was losing mobility. He had already lost his eyesight.

Bringing Murphy and Ivy into our home was an attempt to fill the energetic hole in our hearts and home after losing Monkey (Kaci’s well-deserved nickname).

When Doby died one year to the day after Kaci, we were comforted by Murphy and Ivy. They didn’t understand what had happened to Double D (yes, another nickname) but were soon back to running around the house, wrestling, chasing deer out of our Texas yard, and trying to steal each other’s treats.

Our move to North Carolina went uneventfully enough. I followed behind Marshall, who hauled a trailer packed to the roof with our life’s odds and ends. Throughout the journey, Ivy was in the car with me, Murphy with Marshall.

They have always been such good travelers.

Murphy and Ivy acclimated well to our new home on 10 acres on the western edge of Burke County. The two were back to chasing deer out of the yard, and to their sheer delight, giving wild turkeys a run for their money, too.

It was after our move to Burke that the morning ritual became so important to me.

When we brought them into our New Braunfels, Texas, home, I was working from home, writing legal blogs for a California marketing agency. That changed when we moved to Burke. A month after our arrival, the opportunity arose to be part of the founding team at The Paper. Soon I was leaving the house every weekday morning, a change all four of us had to get used to.

That morning touchpoint became my way of telling the kids how important they are to me. I think it did the same for them.

While Ivy can be an overzealous licker, Murphy’s kisses are few and far between. Like Kaci before him, Murphy is stingy with such displays. He is, however, the very best cuddler. No offense to Marshall. At about 16 pounds, Murphy is the perfect size for squeezing and hugging. The last thing I do before heading out the door each morning is give Ivy one more kiss and tell her she’s pretty, then pick up Murphy for a cuddle while extolling his handsomeness. For anyone concerned, Marshall gets a kiss from me, too.

Then came the week before the Fourth of July.

On Monday, June 29, the sound of Marshall grinding beans for a fresh pot of coffee initially woke me up. Then it was Murphy. He came over to me and used his right hand (that’s right, I said hand) to tap my shoulder twice. I turned to look at him, and he licked me – right on the mouth. Then licked twice more. Then curled up beside me, telling me he was ready for his belly rubs. I was delighted. When Marshall returned to the bedroom with a piping hot cup of elixir, I told him what had happened.

“You won’t believe this, but I got kisses from Murphy. Several of them.”

It was as if Murphy knew I needed the extra affection before heading out for what would be a short, intense week at work. We were leaving Thursday for Florida, and I didn’t want to hit the road without leaving that Saturday edition in good shape.

Tuesday morning was a repeat of Monday. More Murphy kisses. And he seemed happy to linger in bed longer than usual. I did, too. He’s being so sweet, I thought. I held him extra close and nuzzled my nose into his fur. I stayed like that for several minutes before convincing myself that I needed to get dressed.

Ditto on Wednesday.

Then Thursday came.

Not needing to be at work, the entire Copeland family slept in. We had already decided to drive only halfway to Florida, turning the trip into two short drives instead of one long one. There was no frantic rush to pack up and leave. We had plenty of time to make it to our hotel reservation in Macon, Ga. Murphy chose to lie in a shady spot of grass in the backyard while Marshall and I packed. Ivy took her usual spot in the living room, reclining against the sofa to half-expose her belly.

I picked up my pillow to put it in the car and noticed a spot about the size of a pencil eraser on the bottom left corner. Upon closer inspection, I realized it was dried blood. I surveyed myself and then looked over Murphy and Ivy. No obvious blood on anyone. How long had it been there? Had it been there for days, and was I just now noticing?

I mentioned it in passing to Marshall, but mostly shrugged it off.

Once headed down Interstate 40, Ivy quickly laid claim to my lap. Murphy gave me another kiss (more kisses!) and relaxed on the console between the driver and passenger seats, settling into his position faster than usual. On previous long trips, he tended to be more restless for the first 30 minutes. Not this time. I attributed his newfound ease to the multiple car trips we had taken between Morganton and Crossville during the last six months as cancer slowly, then quickly, snatched life from my sister-in-law.

We stopped several times on our way to Macon, giving Murphy and Ivy multiple opportunities to mark their new territory and to perform what I call the potty sandwich. Murphy would relieve himself. Ivy would follow suit right on top of his. Then Murphy would return to have the final say.

Like so many tragedies in life that strike on an otherwise normal day, we didn’t know we were in the last hours of our perfect Copeland family.

We took the interstate exit for our Macon hotel, passing a Bonefish Grill. We determined that once we got settled into the room and walked the kids, we would make a beeline for Bang Bang Shrimp.

For reasons neither of us could explain, Marshall usually walked Murphy on road trips while I took Ivy. Not this particular time. As we were putting on their leashes in the hotel room, I announced to Marshall, “You take the crazy one.” (No, Ivy is not crazy. Let’s call her “spicy.” That’s how her groomer sometimes refers to her.)

Everything seemed normal. I walked with Murphy as he peed on every bush and rock he passed. Then he settled into the distinct position for No. 2. I cheered inside, knowing that this meant I likely would not be cleaning up a mess in our hotel room when we returned from dinner.

Then my heart dropped. His stool was black and tarry, a hallmark of internal bleeding.

“Marshall, we are not going to dinner. We are going immediately to an emergency animal hospital,” I said with a force and tone he knew there would be no discussion about it.

By 11 p.m., we had received a grim prognosis.

“I don’t have good news about Murphy,” the veterinarian said as we sat in a small exam room.

Murphy had developed sudden-onset immune-mediated thrombocytopenia (IMT), an autoimmune condition in which his immune system attacked and destroyed his own blood platelets. He was bleeding in his digestive tract. He had developed small sores inside his mouth. That explained the spot on my pillow. He would have to be hospitalized and immediately started on steroid treatments in an effort to shut down his immune response while his body replenished his platelets.

The veterinarian told us about 20% of dogs don’t respond to treatment. The odds seemed in our favor. I was wrong.

Six days, four veterinary hospitals, and two states later, we lost Murphy.

Marshall and I continue to replay the final weeks of Murphy’s life, questioning every decision and wondering what we might have done differently. We know there is no way to tell whether anything would have changed the outcome. Still, I suspect we will question ourselves for a long time.

I don’t know whether Murphy knew how sick he was. I’ll never know whether that was why he lavished kisses and extra attention on me in the days before our trip. I only know I will cherish every one of those kisses.