Dog owners often remark that their dogs’ lives are far too short. What a strange joke of fate it seems, that we were given these loving, loyal, consistently honest and good-natured companions only to have them die so quickly.
Dogs’ lifespans are only about 1/7 of humans’ (so *that’s* where the “dog years are seven human years” idea comes from!), which means, theoretically, you could live with seven dogs in succession before you both kick the bucket.
Or do what we’ve done, and double your pleasure, with two at a time. Still, it’s likely the HH and I will never again raise a puppy, and we may have only a couple more dog lives to share with our furry loved ones.
So it’s no wonder that, when I arrived upon the final post for Be the Dog last week, it came as a bit of a surprise. What? Already? Didn’t I just start this thing?
Then the questions began, of course. Was one year enough time to cover all of the ways that dogs are great role models? Now that we’ve got Jasper in our lives, won’t I encounter many more amazing dog traits to share with my readers? Can I really come up with yet another 52 columns about, of all things, dogs? Does anyone really care?
In the end, I decided to stick with the original plan and bow out now, before Be the Dog jumps the shark.
I’ll leave you with one more dog story, about our beloved Elsie, to wrap up the series.
When she was about ten, we noticed a small lump on Elsie’s haunch. It was the size of a large strawberry, and the vet assured us it was benign. By the time she was 13, it had grown to the size of a baseball and the new diagnosis was “slow-growing cancer.” So we faced a tough decision.
By then, Elsie was definitely a “senior” dog. And while the lump had cramped her usual style, causing her to walk more slowly, pretty much everything else remained the same: her blood test results were stellar; she still played with her sister daily; still begged constantly for treats; still enjoyed catching the Frisbee (though by then, we had to kind of pitch it right at her mouth, like a practice throw in T-ball); still had perfectly strong, white teeth; basically, still remained her usual self, sweet and funny and gentle and affectionate.
Turned out we had three choices: First, do nothing and allow her to fade away naturally as the tumor overtook her body. The vet gave her a few months in this scenario.
Second, remove the entire lump plus a small border around it to ensure every cancer cell was cut away. In this case, because the lump was embedded in a major leg muscle, the surgery would likely render her disabled and, even if she did walk again, she’d require months of physiotherapy.
The third option was called “debulking”: remove as much of the tumor as possible without harming the muscle. After recovery, she’d look normal, but a small number of cancer cells might remain–there was no way to know until post-surgery.
After much hand-wringing and wailing (well, I cried; the HH doesn’t do that sort of thing), we opted for the third choice. To begin with, at her age, we couldn’t justify putting her through the additional trauma of losing her ability to walk.
According to the surgeon, a best-case scenario would eradicate the cancer, since removing most of the lump might just allow Elsie’s own immune system to dispose of any remaining cancer cells. Worst case, surgery would buy us more time, but the slow-growing tumor would eventually return.
Knowing that any surgery includes risk, we decided to throw an “Elsie appreciation-and-farewell” party the week before the surgery. We gathered all of Elsie’s human and canine friends at our place to show her the love.
The party was a joyous occasion. She reveled in the attention and food, and basically lost any modicum of decorum when our friend Mark sauntered through the door (as you might recall, he’s the one she stayed with as a pup and adored forever more). After an evening of excessive pats (for her), wine and cheer (for the rest of us), everyone wished her well. The next day, we headed to the surgery and crossed our fingers.
The procedure was a resounding success! Although the surgeon couldn’t guarantee he’d “got it all,” Elsie recovered quickly and seemed her old self in no time. With a renewed spring in her step, she resumed daily walks, continued to wrestle and play with Chaser, and everyone in the house was elated.
But here’s where the oddities of human nature come into play. You know how you never seem to notice those things you see every day, the quotidian details that are so familiar they become invisible? And how we don’t recognize when those things change, unless we’re away from them for a while?
Think of when you visited your parents the first time after going away to college and your immediate thought was, “When did Dad lose so much hair?” Or a Sunday drive to the country in October: “Wow–all the leaves have changed colors, overnight!” Or how the kitchen table suddenly seems so scuffed and scratched one morning after you’ve been wiping it daily for 25 years.
Well, it was the same with our sweet Elsie.
“Mum, did you notice how I got really old so suddenly?”
Of course, intellectually we knew the lump was coming back and that Elsie’s gait had slowed again. But we fooled ourselves into thinking it “wasn’t that bad” because we were so close to her that we didnt recognize just how much it had grown.
Regular vet visits confirmed her general good health. But I guess I should have picked up the message when our vet, who’d cared for Elsie since she was eight weeks old, gently inquired if we might “consider” whether it was time. And the next visit, she asked again. And then the next.
Yes, Elsie was a senior dog, I reasoned–okay, even a geriatric one–but hadn’t her blood tests all indicated stellar health? And sure, she didn’t walk as much any more, but she still loved her food, and her sister. And she was still affectionate with us.
Even when the walks trickled down to just a few steps outside the front door, we continued to hang on. Even when she stopped playing with her sister, we told ourselves, “Well, she’s just an ornery old girl now. No worse than Aunty May was when she got old.” And when she could no longer navigate the stairs, the HH carried her down in the morning before work, then carried her back up right before bed. In the interim, she slept on a blanket I’d laid by the front door. And when she finally became incontinent, we rationalized, “We can use doggie diapers.”
Anything to avoid seeing what was right in front of our faces.
I’d look into my girl’s tired eyes and always detected her spark of recognition and love. I’d remember that she was counting on us to take care of her, to safeguard her comfort and wellbeing. And I just couldn’t do it.
It wasn’t until Elsie herself made clear she was ready to go that we relented. Our vet offered to come to the house so Elsie would be in her familiar space when we said goodbye.
The day before she was scheduled to be euthanized, we wanted to give Elsie the best day possible. Since she’d always loved going to the local trail but hadn’t been able to for months, we drove out that morning to the usual place. The HH carried her from the car, along the slight incline and to the main path of the trail. We figured we’d let her roam as long as she could, then he’d carry her back.
Elsie’s last walk at the trail.
When I saw her eyes darting from spot to spot in recognition, the pace of her panting increase and a monumental effort to speed up, the tears came instantly. We let her delight in the fresh air, the old familiar pond, sniff the bushes to her heart’s content. After about five minutes, she seemed tired and we headed back.
Once home, I reviewed the video I’d taken. My throat constricted and my stomach sank. Yes, Elsie seemed happy. But what I hadn’t expected to see was the lump. The massive, almost half-her-width, practically throbbing and cannibalistic mass that lived on her hip, sucking the life out of her. It was a shock to see it poised there, bobbing along with her, even as she struggled to move under the impediment.
“The vet was right,” I thought, tears streaming down my face. “We waited too long. . . “ Finally moving beyond our habitual, daily view of her, I was able to see, and accept, that the time had come.
After it was over, we mourned. I still think of my sweet girl often and am grateful for the far-too-short time we had with her. I can still feel how much joy she brought into our lives.
Each dog is special. Each dog leaves its indelible mark etched directly onto your heart. Luckily, our hearts have room for them all.
And now, when it comes to this series, I know the time has come as well. Let’s not wait until these posts begin to lumber under the weight of time and repetition. Instead, consider this the farewell party for Be the Dog. I’m thrilled you’re all still here, but it’s time to go.
I’ll see you next time, ready to share some new and novel adventures.
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As always, thank you for reading. If you enjoy Be the Dog, please share it with someone else! Or support me and my writing by subscribing with a paid or free subscription. I’ll be eternally grateful either way.
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This was so lovely. Your dogs are lucky to have found their way to you with your big heart and the ability to see them for their imperfect, loving and unique selves. Loved this series Ricki. Well done.
Farewell, then, Be the Dog, may an infinite street of fire hydrants and slow squirrels lay before you. Thank you, Ricki, for a year of kindness and hope.