So, they told me today my dog was going to die.
I know. I know. I know. He’s just a dog. (Just?!) Property. Not people. Not family. Not even my species.
Listen: I can rattle off a fast roster of Homo Sapiens who’d fare poorly in The Lifeboat Test against my dog. I think most days my pack is nicer to me than some family members. Ownership is involved but the direction of that dotted line is open to interpretation. Technically, Houdi-the-Brainless-Wonder is not even mine as Sarah holds the license. (Right. And 26 years ago her Dad “gave” the bride away, thus invoking the transitive properties of state-issued licenses.)
It’s been an interesting couple of weeks with both mutts having cancer. Kiss-Me-Kate has weirdly been on the short end of the attention stick because her cancer is treatable. Houdi’s isn’t. That means our time left with him is limited. Ol’ Doc Steve walked us through all the options and compassionately explained how Houdi doesn’t really have any. We weighed the pros and cons of monitored poisoning via chemo and even amputation. Yeah. We came to a place where we were willing –hopeful even– to chop off a quarter of Houdi’s body mass if it meant he’d live. But no, even butchery wasn’t an option because the cancer was up in his spine. The very, very, thin silver lining was that the creeping death was expected to spread slowly. We’d have more quality time together to adjust to the gradual loss of locomotion and control over his bowels.
Sarah and I have been helping each other through the stages of grief. I keep coming back to “anger” almost daily. Houdi’s too damn happy to bother. He’s got nothing to process. He’s with his pack and his mate. His belly is filled (more so lately) or at least as much as a Labrador can ever be sated. It’s summer and there’s a world of wonderful things to sniff and pee on. We still go on walks, just with three legs now. Squirrels now hold the decisive advantage but that’s ok. It’s the chasing, not the catching. The long warm days are packed with play, belly rubs and naps. If mommy seems to be crying a lot lately, well, he’s right there to comfort her. It’s his job after all and he does it like a master craftsman. Its our burden if we just can’t reconcile his full-bodied embrace of life with watching his hindquarters shrivel and die a little more every day. I honestly don’t know what I’ll do when he’s unable to wag any more. Is there a quota on heartbreak?
No. No, there isn’t. Even after I take him to the vet one last time, I’ll still have to remember. And I’ll forever have to remember that I was the one to make the call to end it, not Houdi. I’ll remember and grieve and resent that one of God’s purest souls has to go away so soon while madmen and monsters still breathe.
Sarah and I have a prayer now, one that we say together and which (we hope) expresses our better natures and is worthy of its subject:
‘Almighty God: Bestow upon us the wisdom to know when the time has come, that we may celebrate with whole hearts every day given to us, while preventing any unnecessary hour of suffering. Receive into your home this most joyous of your servants and keep him beyond care and pain. Strengthen our hearts for the difficult times to come that we will remain mindful and grateful for the times we had. Amen.‘
Houdi is a good dog. What more can you say, really? May our own epitaphs amount to as much.