It takes only a bite, a morsel of this particular mushroom found in our area, to kill a person of any size, or a pet. There are many varieties all over the globe, but this one, the Amanita phalloideis (also called Death Cap or Destroying Angel), is also found in New England, including in Hanover, and it is one of the deadliest mushrooms on earth. It’s been around for centuries: Romans even trace it back to the deaths of Emperor Claudius (AD 54) and Emperor Charles VI (1740). No matter where it is found, its toxicity–death–is the same.
Our dachshund, Annie, found one recently on the Mink Brook trail in Hanover, ate it, and almost died. Who knows why a certain mushroom among many others dotting the landscape at this time of year, has a siren call to attract a dachshund? Some claim this mushroom has a “fishy” or sweet smell. More likely it was just there, a tasty morsel. When Annie staggered and vomited the next morning, we rushed to the nearby veterinary ER hospital, SAVES, in Lebanon and sat in the waiting room.
The news was not good. She had acute liver failure from eating this mushroom. There is no known cure. The doctor called us in and held her wrapped in a blanket. What should we do? Euthanasia? They could administer that. She left us alone in the exam room to face this prospect, a hollow opening up before us of life without her. After doing some more research, she returned and said there was one hospital, in Woburn, Mass., that might have a trial antidote, if we could get her there in time. The odds were slim.
With an appointment made, we arrived at Massachusetts Veterinary Referral Hospital. A long line of sick dogs and cats and their anxious owners were being turned away one after another. “Sorry. We are only taking pets who are dying!” In the triage room, the vet said not to get our hopes up. “We’ve only had three dogs with this condition.” He paused. “They all died.”
Annie was in the ICU for five days. Her treatment was complex (and expensive): IVs taped to her front paws. She had her gall bladder aspirated to drain the toxin, and also the new trial drug to block its spreading. (The staff drove 30 miles to get it.) The team of vets in the ICU were tireless and kind, on the ball, and rooting for her. Our friends, with their own kind of prayers, chants and “manifestations,” joined in. Oddly, this powerful communal energy was something we could sense.
Annie made it through the critical first night and became “queen” of the ICU. A dachshund, even a sick one, can win hearts by being cunning, by mixing willfulness with dignity, independence with devotion and love. As a breed, they pick up vibes, and their demeanor conveys an optimism that’s hard to miss. Annie may have sensed her advantage. She was one step ahead of the other sick dogs, and ahead of her own dismal odds. The hospital had hopes for a miracle dog.
Her bloodwork showed improvement. Her liver values were coming down. But in moments like this, I get superstitious. The day before we returned to visit her, not yet knowing exactly how she was doing, I was looking out the glass door of our sunroom, facing the garden, when it started to drizzle and the wind picked up. I noticed a thin cobweb dangling straight down, attached at both ends to the glass. I thought, Well, if it can withstand the rain and wind or a bug landing on it without breaking, Annie will be okay. That cobweb, like one of those colorful wind tubes at gas stations that bend and twist, advertising tires or free oil changes, spiraled down, then popped back up. And in the morning it was still there.
The day she was discharged, she paraded out of the hospital, past all the worried folks in the waiting area, her head held high, tail wagging. I noticed a young couple sitting nearby, a box of Kleenex between them, red-eyed, holding hands, as they looked up.
We were lucky, and grateful. So much of life is luck, though — just chance facing the right direction at the right time.
*A footnote: I took a walk the other day to a grass patch at the foot of a nearby road. I saw an oak tree, where Amanita mushrooms often grow. There it was. No warning attached.
Geraldine Van Dusen is a freelance writer and editor. She lives in Hanover.