In this case, it is our ten year old Black Lab, Kona. The pain of knowing that his life is coming to an end, a premature end, is excruciating. The news that he had two lemon-sized tumors in his lung hit me like a mac truck. I knew that he was ill, that something was wrong. But I thought it was something from which he would recover and he would be around for a few more good years. But, alas, that does not seem to be the case. The tumors have caused an unusual reaction in his body in that his small joints are now calcifying. He is in pain. A lot of pain. He doesn’t show it. He never whimpers or cries. He heroically insists on going for his walks, even though it must cause him extreme pain. If he were younger, and healthier, we might try treatment. But he is almost 11. He has a seizure disorder. He has liver damage. He may have kidney damage. Treatment will only prolong his suffering and it isn’t fair to him. So we are managing his pain and trying to keep him comfortable.
It is easier to write about it rather than talk about it. I cry while I write but no one sees the puffy eyes and the red nose or hears the gasps for breathe between sobs. Talking about it, it is all so apparent. I’m not ashamed of my reaction, but I am raw. Emotionally. Spiritually. The question remains, do we help him transition or let him choose the time? It is not the first time we have faced this dilemma. Our first dog, Sonnet, a rescued Doberman, lived until she was 16. She was failing. But she wasn’t going to let go on her own. We had to make the decision. We scheduled an appointment for the following week. That evening she had an “attack”. We both gathered around her and told her it was OK to go. But she came back. It was clear. I did not want her to die by herself. I did not want to come home and find her dead. I wanted to surround her with love as she transitioned to a new life. It was difficult. The grieving process was also hard. For the first few weeks I couldn’t leave home. I could barely function. It got better. A trip to Humane Society, about a month after she left us, let me know that while I wasn’t ready for another dog, I would one day let another dog into my life and my heart.
About three months after Sonnet was gone, I went to the Humane Society and filled out an application for a dobie mix or a lab. I figured it would be a while. We received a call on July 2nd. There was a dog that matched us. A black lab. From Texas—a Hurricane Allison rescue. He was one of 50 dogs that were brought to Marin from Houston. His family had given him up at 18 months stating he needed too much attention. He was a big beautiful lab with a big bushy otter tail. He was 90 pounds and had the longest tongue. When we first went to meet him, he was a little cool. He was more interested in the worker who had treats. After a few visits and an overnight to think about it we decided to adopt him. He was supposed to be ours. He came home on Saturday July 7th. The first night he was home with us, he curled up at the foot of the bed. “I’m home!” he thought. As a young dog he was a handful. We went to obedience school. He passed Family Dog One but was not promoted. House Manners and Family Dog 2 came next. He learned. He loved to please. He loved to get treats. He still does.
We’ve had over nine years with him. It is not enough. He is a sweet sweet dog. People who do not like dogs, like him. He loves people. He likes other dogs, but he loves their people too. He has had his adventures.
The grief chokes me. I cannot catch my breath. The tears stream down my face at the thought of not having him with me, with us. I’ve missed half of my life with him over the last two years because of work travel. I scream and wail at the unfairness of it. My body is trying to expel the reality that this sweet boy must leave us. I pace, trying to quell the panic that rises in my throat and closes my airway. He is not yet gone, but the prospect that he soon will be is here. And it smothers me. It sucks the very soul from me. I can only get through the day without crying by having distractions, distractions that do not require the active use of my brain. And the crying comes anyway. I want to remember and I want to forget. I live between denial and bargaining now. I want to rewind the clock and forget that one day very soon, either by our active decision or his passive one; he will no longer be with us. His spirit will always be with us. I know that. Leaving is hard, being left behind is torture.
He has given us the joy of having him in our lives. The thrill of watching him run through the field with the look of pure joy as his ears flap in the wind and his tongue bounces. My baby boy, now an old gray dog, is a blessing. He has taught me so much. Unconditional love. Joy. Happiness. Loyalty. How to live in the present moment. Forgiveness. Acceptance. How to make friends. Kona’s Law #1—Always assume that others are as happy to see you as you are to see them. His lessons will not be lost, perhaps occasionally forgotten, but only momentarily.
So how do you say good-bye to a friend? How do you make the decision to compassionately let him go? It is an agonizing decision. For now, the only decision we have made is not to make a decision. We will live a day at a time, perhaps even a moment at a time, just like Kona has taught us. Tonight he took me for a walk in the rain, in the dark, and he wanted to keep on going. He took Tom for that same walk this morning at 5 am. The steroid injection and the pain medication must have provided some relief. He has eaten well today, acting like his old self.
We do not know how much time he will be with us; perhaps two more days, perhaps two weeks. Dare I hope two months? I want to revert to my rules for living—denial and optimism. As a client, who recently had to make a similar decision told me, “If you don’t know if its time, then it isn’t.” For today, it isn’t time.
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