One week ago today, I discovered that our dog Allie, age 10, had a large mass in her abdomen. I had taken her to the vet because off and on for about a week, she had been lethargic and not eating much. I expected perhaps an infection or some arthritis that medicine would help. I never could have imagined that 2 days later, she would be gone. That's the same day the pink peonies bloomed.
When the vet called me back in and brought the X-rays, my very being grew heavy as she told me the mass filled up a big portion of Allie's abdomen and that her white blood count was quite high. I could barely speak, but I agreed with her that immediate exploratory surgery was the best option. Either it would be benign and removable, giving Allie a good shot at her normal life expectancy of about 15 years, or it wouldn't. The vet thoroughly covered all scenarios and asked apologetically--if, that when she operated, she found it inoperable and malignant--would I prefer to have Allie euthanized while she was already under? I immediately said, "Yes." I discussed it soon after with CJ, who agreed completely.
For the next two days, CJ and I twisted our way though the tangled emotions of denial, hope, dejection, love and uncertainty. Yes, this is about a dog. A willing and joyful companion who never complained and who travelled with us just about everywhere. Dog love runs mighty deep.
On Friday morning, we both took her in for surgery. We had sort of said goodbye the night before, but not really--we didn't want to be too morbid without knowing for sure the outcome. CJ and I got down on our bellies under the dining room table, one of Allie's favorite spots, looked her in the eye and talked to her. C told her that whatever happened, it was OK, and I reminded her that here was the very spot she and I had first met 7 years ago. The next 7 years with Allie made a loyal, life-long dog lover out of me.
The two of us had spent lots of time together these last two years, while I struggled to recover from losing my job. We had an unspoken understanding and rhythm between us. She followed me back and forth, upstairs and down, throughout the house everyday as I went about my chores and writing. She was rarely more than a few feet from me. We also took frequent walks in the park. I knew when she was thirsty or hungry. Saw the simple joy she felt rolling in the grass or following a scent trail. She was part Aussie and part Beagle. An Australian Beagle we called her. What a great mix. Why oh why couldn't I see her changing and growing terminally ill? I think because she really did not show her symptoms until a month ago, and then only briefly. Dogs stay loyal and happy. That's what makes them so lovable.
Thirty-six hours after learning unexpectedly that she had a big tumor, I got the call from the vet's assistant. She said it was too big to remove and was completely attached to the pancreas, and did I wish to have her euthanized? "Yes," I said again, as my being fell like stone into the pit of my stomach, into my calves. I hung up, stunned. So was a friend who had dropped by for a cup of coffee. She left shortly, but gave me a hug with her condolences. Then I started wailing. CJ called me a few minutes later from work to ask with a hopeful tone if I had heard anything. I could barely speak and she had nothing to say when I told her it was all bad news. I sat in my chair for hours that day, immobilized by grief. A short while after she put Allie to sleep, the vet called me to let me know the specifics. It was a warm gesture and comforted me for a few minutes. That evening, with poor CJ still at work, I began to wonder how much longer I could cry alone. A few minutes later, the door bell rang. My neighbor and two of my friends joined me with a bottle of wine. And finally, when C got home, she began to wail because Allie was not there to greet her at the door. We had a toast and told stories of Allie. We all laughed and cried, but felt a little better. Yes, over a dog.
Allie's cancer had completely surrounded her kidney and had begun wrapping around her intestines. An insidious and rapid killer. It was the best choice to let her go peacefully before it ruptured or cut off her kidney or intestinal functions completely. We were humane to our sweet companion.
Allie's cancer had completely surrounded her kidney and had begun wrapping around her intestines. An insidious and rapid killer. It was the best choice to let her go peacefully before it ruptured or cut off her kidney or intestinal functions completely. We were humane to our sweet companion.
Still, we mourned and will be sad for many days to come. We will miss her forever. That song, "Mr Bojangles," kept ringing in my head with the line, "His dog up and died, up and died, and after fifty years he still grieves..." We questioned our ignorance of her condition, looked for answers. Where did we go wrong? The vet assured us that it would have been undetectable to anyone, that it was a rare, life-ending condition, no matter when we would have found it. That we didn't do anything to cause it. That she lived a good life and was probably in some discomfort the last months, but not serious pain. That she had been happy until the end. That's all anyone could ask for.
As the shock wears off, the emptiness remains. Yet, the house is still filled with the animal presence of our cats. Allie helped raise the youngest one who now searches for her. They both used to rise up and growl, then go flying down the steps together when the door bell rang. Now I don't know when the mail carrier has come, either. But I do know that one day another gentle spirited canine will catch our eyes and hearts and find a home with us. Maybe it will even have a little bit of Allie dog in it. If we could be that lucky.
