Woof, woof

I'm dogsick.

It was a year ago this week that I found out my beloved dog, the Alpha Bitch herself, was terminally ill. With lymphoma. It was absolutely heartbreaking. It was 17 days from the time she stopped eating and I realized she was sick until I held her in my arms as she calmly and gracefully died. That was how she did everything: calmly and gracefully. My heart is still broken.

It's a funny kind of thing -- I knew that the prognosis for lymphoma in dogs was not so good, and that the only treatment offered was uncomfortable and debilitating and only successful about half the time (with success defined here as another six months or so waiting for a relapse and another 25 weeks of chemotherapy, and maybe another six months). I knew that I would not put either of us through that, and that I would have to somehow make a decision about when to end her life.

My veterinarian assured me that I would "just know" when the time was right, but I was skeptical. I mean, how could I possibly know? Would I just reach a point where I couldn't stand the suspense? Would I try to hang on too long and make her suffer needlessly?

I have a flexible schedule, and I almost always went home and had lunch and a long walk with her, but I was happy to take some time off and spend a few entire days with her that first week of it, just strolling around the neighborhood and basking in the spring sun. She didn't want to run in the morning any more, but she still had plenty of energy for long long walks. And for the first time since I'd known her, we could take walks without having to fight about eating the garbage. It's not easy to pull disgusting food/garbage items out of the mouth of a large-ish German shepherd/Rottweiler/Husky mix who's highly motivated to eat whatever it is you're trying to take away. She didn't even try to snag the catfood in the bowl on my neighbor's front porch when we went over there.

She continued to guard the house from her bed near the door, or to watch everybody go by on the street from her blanket on the porch. She was always happy to get company, as long as they didn't bring dogs. She wouldn't eat, though, not even her favorite lamb and risotto dish with canned pumpkin and yogurt on the side. Not even raw carrots or dog biscuits or chunks of watermelon.

She seemed a little tired, but pretty chipper considering that her liver had failed already. And her beautiful coat was still glossy and gorgeous.

Then it started to seem like even the shortest walks exhausted her, but still no obvious pain.

Then one day she didn't want me to leave whatever room she was in. She had never been a clingy dog, and this surprised me. She wanted me to touch her a lot, but not the vigorous dog-rubs that she usually liked. She became just a little clumsy now and then.

Then one morning after a short slow walk and a long bask in the side yard sun, she fell down, and it was clear that she couldn't walk up the steep steps by herself. And, for the first time, she obviously hurt.

I knew. I called and made an appointment for the end of Dr. J's work day.

We went outside again after a while and sat in the sun some more. Sometimes she put her head in my lap, sometimes she just leaned against my hip. It was a perfect day. I didn't even put her leash on as she had no desire to wander, eat garbage, or start fights.

We'd been sitting there for a couple of hours when I saw her look over at my neighbor's porch. I knew exactly what she was looking at, and her eyes were very sparkly all of a sudden. She got up very slowly and deliberately and walked across the street with her beautiful fluffy tail wagging. She trotted up the steps and ate the entire bowl of cat food. I made no attempt to stop her. Who cared if it made her sick?

I don't think I'd ever seen her as happy as she was at that moment.



[Update: I added the picture of her in July 2005]