Note: This was originally shared on my friend Daliene's blog. Today I am publishing it in order to link up at Funky Junk's linky party that honors her kitty, Teddy.
I kept my eyes fixed on the ground,
knowing the puddle of tears would spill over if I made eye contact with Dr. Hörger’s
sympathetic gaze. I could hear him speaking, but my mind just couldn’t seem to
comprehend his words. Here for a routine blood draw, I hadn’t expected to hear
this kind of news.
“Thyroid cancer . . . advanced . .
. invasive . . .” These words finally penetrated my consciousness like bullets
fired from a gun.
Vaguely aware of talk of surgery, I
collected myself enough to ask, “What would you do if she were yours?”
He hesitated before replying, “I
can’t answer that for you. She is old—fourteen is ancient for a dog her size.
She might not even survive the surgery. Plus, I can’t guarantee that I can remove
the entire tumor.” He went on to explain the difficulty of the surgery. Winnie
would have a large incision and would require care after the operation,
necessitating a stay of several days at the clinic. She hated being away from home, I thought.
“And if we
don’t operate?” I heard myself ask, needing to know it all.
“I’d say we’re looking at two to
four months,” he gently replied.
The tears flowed freely then. Dr. Hörger
patted my shoulder and told me to think over the two options that night. “Sleep
on it,” he said.
Sleep on it? Was he crazy? I knew
he meant well, but I also knew there’d be no sleep for me.
Winnie, of course, had no idea
there was anything wrong with her. Her goofy grin and polite handshake charmed
the receptionists once again as I wrote the check. We walked to the car, her
wagging tail counting cadence as usual.
At home, I sat next to my friend,
stroking her long black fur, pondering the impossible. How could I make this
life or death decision for a creature so devoted? I felt as if, in a way, I
owed her my life. The months after my divorce would have been unbearable
without the distractions of raising a puppy. She gave me the unconditional love
my broken heart needed so desperately.
I contemplated life without
Winnie-the-Pooch. I tried to imagine going to the bathroom unaccompanied,
walking through the house without pausing to step over the speed bump her body
created in the hallways, spending fewer hours vacuuming black tumbleweeds
during shedding season. Just then she looked up at me with her warm, brown
eyes as if to say, I trust you
completely.
I made my decision. I would spare
her the pain of a potentially fruitless surgery. Instead, she would live the
rest of her days spoiled beyond compare. The unrelenting efforts to keep her
figure svelte would cease; she would eat whatever piqued her interest. We’d go
for frequent rides in the car, one of her favorite adventures, and for slow
walks in the neighborhood, where she could sniff and explore to her heart’s
content.
The next day I called Dr. Hörger’s
office to inform him of my decision. He warned me that the tumor would continue
to grow and would eventually begin to affect Winnie’s ability to eat and to
breathe. We discussed the activities that signaled quality of life for her so
that I would know when it was time to let her go. At the end of the
conversation, I renewed my vow to make these last months pleasurable.
I can only believe that Winnie knew
how I would mourn her loss. She lasted not only the four months Dr. Hörger had
predicted, but also an additional year beyond that time.
As the vet warned, Winnie’s tumor
continued to enlarge, pressing against her windpipe and causing her to pant in
attempts to gain enough air. Our slow walks became shorter and shorter and
finally stopped altogether, as the least exertion required more and more energy.
She spent less time interacting with me and more time sleeping.
Finally, one night her labored
breathing kept us both awake. She kept shifting position, trying unsuccessfully
to get comfortable. I mentally reviewed the signs of quality of life Dr. Hörger
and I had discussed and knew it was time. The next morning I called the clinic
and made arrangements to take her in.
As she lay on the table, I removed
her worn leather collar, stroked her head, kissed her nose
one last time, and told her I loved her. I thanked her for being such a good
friend, and then I watched her drift away.
Winnie gave me more love than I
could have ever given her. Setting her free was my way of repaying the debt.
I have had other dogs since Winnie –
Lucy, Desi, and Hannah. I love each one, but none will ever be Winnie, my heart
dog.
