I never really came here all that often on my own, and the hospital itself has been completely…read morereconfigured and renovated since I made my last visit some years ago, but it left a very positive impression.
We always had animals when I was growing up, primarily cats because my mother was allergic to dog dander. I had nothing against cats, but...being a boy...I really wanted a dog. Give my sister her due-- she did the due diligence and learned that the Keeshond breed, because of its plush fur, would be less likely to cause an allergic reaction. While still living in Wayne, we got a Keeshond named Kiku. My sister was right; my mother wasn't allergic.
It basically became, almost by default, my dog. I walked it before school, after school, and in the evening. It had an unpredictable disposition and scared a lot of people, but I loved that dog. When it had to be put down, my father was the one who actually brought the dog here to have it done. I sometimes accompanied Dad if the animal needed shots or needed to be "fixed," but not for this. I didn't come along this time; I wasn't up to it emotionally.
My father missed Kiku (as did I), and acquired another Keeshond named Cookie, a female. I don't know if the different temperament was due to the different sex, but Cookie was a gentle sweetheart. Again, she was basically my dog. I had to walk her in the morning, in the afternoon, and at night. One night, in my late teens, I came in very inebriated, and basically collapsed on the floor downstairs before I could take Cookie out on her nightly walk. When I awakened groggily a few hours later, Cookie sat there not far from me, looking at me reproachfully, her "business" still undone. I rectified that by belatedly taking her outside and offered up what apologies I could. Being a good-natured lass, she seemed to forgive me.
When Cookie had to be put down, it was still my father who did it. I still couldn't bring myself to participate in the process. Unfair to Dad? Yeah. But it was one of my more pronounced weak points. I had trouble dealing with the death of a loved one, animal or human.
When I got my own place, my sister "gifted" me with a feral cat named Bella. I didn't really want the cat, but I didn't say no. I figured she'd be company. She destroyed my furniture, raked my arms with her claws when I tried to be friendly, sometimes threw up on my carpet.
But, like 2 uncongenial inmates sharing the same cell, a "bond" inevitably forms in time, and so it did with us. As she got older, and became sick, I brought her to Basking Ridge Animal Hospital and an operation was performed (I can't remember at this point what her exact ailment was). It bought her more time, and...maybe because of the "trauma" of the operation...she was more affectionate after that, coming to sit on my leg when I came home from work at night, resting her paws on my kneecap.
Not too long after that, she abruptly stopped eating and drinking. I bought several cans of cat food, opened them all, and spread them around her, desperately hoping to tempt her out of whatever was ailing her. She was oblivious to my efforts. I knew her end was near, and I hoped she could die "peacefully" in what had become her home, but I knew that was unrealistic. Was she in pain? Was she suffering? I had no way of knowing (she was silent, not even offering up a plaintive meow), but I couldn't deal with the thought of her dying in silent, protracted agony. With a heavy heart, I put her into her "cat carrier" and brought her to the hospital.
The doctor examined her, and said, "I think it's time. You've done all you can for her." Reluctantly I petted her goodbye and left (I really do hope she didn't feel I was abandoning her). Like the kid whose father attended to the "dirty business" of putting a suffering, aged animal out of their misery, I couldn't bear to be there for the "final act." Dad wasn't around anymore, though. I had steeled myself to come this far, but I couldn't stay in the room for the finish. Maybe I was a coward, or maybe I just felt things too deeply (I've been called by someone who has known me for decades "a gentle soul.") Whatever it was, I hope Bella understood, and forgave, as much as any animal can understand and forgive.
I went back into the main office, paid the bill, and left. On the way to my car, I'm not embarrassed to say that I cried like a baby. Not long after that, the hospital sent me a "sympathy" card for my loss. It was a thoughtful gesture, and I appreciated it.
I recognize that death is an inevitable part of life, but I've never had another animal since. But my memories of Basking Ridge Animal Hospital are...as much as they can be when dealing with sickness and death...positive ones, and I'd recommend this place to anyone.
In my experience with them, they impressed me as caring, dedicated professionals with compassionate hearts.
