Never a Good Time

Which is worse? 

To wake up on what appears to be just another typical day with your happy, healthy dog snoring alongside you, only to go to bed that evening suddenly alone, bereft, and heartbroken; just like that, your dog is gone, the unsuspecting victim of an asymptomatic disease or horrific accident.

Or is it worse to know that a tumor, infection, or disease is festering inside your beloved pet and will eventually kill him, but you hold on to that slim sliver of hope that maybe your dog will beat this thing. And you do chemo treatments and countless surgeries, pills, and appointments, practically draining your meager savings account in a desperate attempt to save your dog's life, praying that maybe he'll be the exception. You wake up each morning with a hopeful, yet heavy heart, wondering if today will be "the day" until eventually it is. 

Which is worse? The answer is both.  

I pondered this question after reading an email I got last week from two dear friends. Tom and Susan fostered Hazel before I adopted her and to this day often dog sit for me. Just a couple months ago I stayed at their house for a few days and dog sat their three greyhounds, Zizi, Ziggy, and Zita. Right off, I knew their email contained bad news.

"...it's with a heavy, saddened heart that I tell you our beloved Zizi died today of lung cancer. Last night she became short of breath. She had no other symptoms. The cancer caused two spontaneous pneumothoraxes--one in each lung.....she gave us seven years of happiness. Hug your hounds and remember how special they are and how short a time we get to enjoy them."

Tom and Susan were offered the option to operate on Zizi in an attempt to treat the disease, but they elected to euthanize her on the spot. Hard as it is, I would have done the same thing. Years later, I still cringe when I think of the horrific surgeries and treatments I inflicted upon my first greyhound, Elvis. For three months I grasped at every straw there was, trying desperately to save that dog's life, unable to fathom living without him.  But in the end, the cancer won. It always does. 

That's why, when Olivia developed bone cancer, I didn't even consider amputation, although it may (key word: may) have extended her life by a year or two. Whenever I thought about amputation, I remembered Elvis: his carved-up neck where the tumors kept growing back, his daily vet appointments to drain the leaking tumors, his numerous shots, his waning energy, his tired eyes. I couldn't do that to another dog.

And so, four months after Olivia's osteoscarcoma diagnosis, I heeded the difficult words of Stu Homer, the founder of Golden State Greyhound Adoption: "Do it while their tail's still wagging."  Olivia's tail was still wagging, and she hadn't yet experienced the excruciating agony of a broken leg, when I made the heartbreaking decision to say goodbye to the dog I called "my sweet 'Livvy."    

It's because of Tom and Susan that today I have Hazel. I remember getting an email from Tom saying, "We're fostering this little fawn that I think you'd love!" and the rest, as they say, is history.   

This afternoon, I thought of my friends after returning home from a weekend getaway. I didn't think Hazel would miss me much since it was only two days and she'd been left in the excellent hands of Deanna, a good friend who gives belly rubs, chicken treats, and likes to take long walks. But when I opened the front door, Hazel almost mowed me down, heaving her 65 pounds onto my lap and pressing against me so tightly it was almost as though she was trying to melt into my skin. Then she'd jump off me, do a couple joyous laps around the sofa, then leap back onto my lap, knocking the breath out of me, and snuggling her knobby head under my chin as I peppered her needle nose with kisses.

And I hug my hound tighter than normal, loving this goofy girl so much my heart is physically aching, and remembering Susan's sage words. Because it's such a short time I get to enjoy her.