Canine health – Hope and Tragedy

Why do we do it? Why do we put ourselves through this over and over and over again?

This morning I found out that a dear friend’s dog was diagnosed with cancer – a cancer all too prevalent in the breed we love. This is the second dog she has had with this form of cancer this decade.

Years ago I lost my beloved Border Collie to hemangiosarcoma. At the time, I could imagine nothing more devastating.

Then I fell in love with Bernese Mountain dogs.

Sanity would suggest that these dogs are their own Greek tragedy. Their life span is one of the shortest of all breeds, they are subject to multiple cancers as well as having a tendency to bloat, bleeding, and dysplasia. Why anyone would self-select for the kind of grief that is almost certain is almost beyond comprehension.

Until you meet the dogs. My first Berner was not my first dog. And my relationships with my dogs before her were wonderful relationships. But something in Sophia really, really got to me.

She was a challenge, both in attitude and health. We had a lot of issues to overcome before she blossomed into the dog we always both knew was lurking behind her pain aggression.  We worked together to make her well. She taught me so much about patience and courage and perseverance and joy. Especially joy.

Even on a bad day, she could light up with energy, happiness, goofiness, … She was clever and she was smart. And she needed me in ways I had never expected. When she was young, she wasn’t ready for the responsibility of the whole house – I quickly learned the up – and down sides of crating. For her, a few months of being crated while I was at work gave her the time to mature to the point where she could take care of the whole house while I was gone. She became my most trustworthy, ‘bulletproof’ dog to be loose in the house.

Berners love their people – and don’t like separations. For a time (after she had once again been given full run of the house all the time) she was growing increasingly agitated when I got ready to leave. After a week or two of this escalating anxiety, one day I turned around, set my stuff back down, and sat down in front of her.

“I always come back. I will always come back. As long as there is breath in my body, I will come home to you. I will never, ever abandon you.”

I sat with her, looking into her eyes and telling her this, for several minutes.  I watched and felt her body relax. She finally put her chin down between her front paws and gave me that look: “What are you still doing here?” I never had another moment of separation anxiety from her.

My girl died of cancer, Malignant Histiocitosis, several weeks shy of her eighth birthday. Although we tried chemo, we were too late. She let me know she was ready to leave.

I wish that no one ever again would have to experience the kind of grief I felt, but I know that isn’t going to be a reality for some time to come. I fear that my friend’s dog, another goofy, sweet, intelligent and challenging dog, will break her heart much as mine was broken.

But I know, too, that the sorrow we feel is a reflection of the love and the joy we have known, and I have never known dogs that bring more joy than these.

So we keep coming back to these dogs. We rescue, we support the health studies, we support each other in times of illness or injury (to our dogs, mostly – our own illness or injury seems trivial in comparison).

And we support the breeders who carefully track the health of the dogs they are considering breeding, and of those dogs’ relatives, and of the puppies they have been responsible for bringing into this world – those breeders who work so hard to breed toward longevity and health and self-confident dogs.

We know they exist – we have met some, and we celebrate the 10- and 12- and 13-year old dogs, and the people who love them. And we weep with the people who love the 4- or the 5- or the 7-year-old dogs who have just been diagnosed.

It isn’t fair that such lovely, loving and intelligent dogs should have such short lives. It isn’t fair that the people who love them feel such grief at their loss.

But we are so lucky to share what few years we do with them.

And I will put in a plug for the Canine Health Foundation – they support research into so many of the ills that plague our dogs, of whatever breed. If we keep working and searching for the answers, perhaps someday I will not see the letters MH and feel like I have been kicked in the stomach.

We can overcome. My Berner taught me that.

I couldn’t, I will

I couldn’t call you to dinner tonight

Nor take the time to lovingly prepare your food

I have no need for turkey necks or sweet potatoes or summer squash

Your brush lies idle, I cannot use it on the other dogs

There is no silken fur that compares with yours

I could not lie on the floor with you

Playing pattycake or just quietly sharing a moment of calm

I could not take delight in watching you run

Nor smile at your expressions as you watched the other dogs getting all worked up about something or other

Your special chair is not a spot for the others to rest

I have put some papers there, and computer bag

It isn’t a place that can be taken

I could not take time before sleep to hug you,

To tell you how much I love you,

To tell you how big a place you will always have in my heart

The little things we shared are bittersweet

I still hear you, see you, talk to you

But I don’t know whether you hear

You stayed so faithfully by my side

Not long enough, though I am grateful for every moment

I will always love you

I will always remember you with joy

I will always remember the feel of your lovely head

Your warmth and trust, your stubborness and your strength

Your special grace and beauty

A year does not ease my sorrow

Any more than it could lessen my adoration

It only helps me realize that much more how remarkable you were.

Tonight I still miss you.

Tonight I still wish you were here.

God speed, sweet girl.

I will see you again someday at the Bridge.

Thanksgiving – a hard year, and yet…

This is going to be a very odd Thanksgiving.

A year ago my sweet Sophia was diagnosed with cancer and I lost her less than three weeks later.

In July we moved our parents into an assisted living facility near two of my sisters and both Mom and Dad promptly ended up in the emergency room. The move meant leaving the house where they had lived almost 60 years, the only home I had ever known until I left for college.

Though both parents bounced back from the stresses of moving, in October Dad died, and I’m not sure that I have really gotten through even the first few steps of grieving.

In March I welcomed Hagar into my home. He’s settling in, finally, still a goofball, still a challenge at times, but a sweet, silly Berner boy.

And I remain thankful, even in the midst of grief and stresses and a complete lack of time and organizational fortitude, for how incredibly lucky I have been.

I got to spend more than 57 years with the support and love of two of the best parents anyone could hope for. They have challenged me, helped me, guided me and given me a foundation in life that I have been privileged to pass on to my own children.

I have three of the most remarkable sisters on the planet. We often disagree about the little stuff, but we all understand the importance of family and being constructive and being there for each other. I don’t think any of us could have gotten through the difficulties of this past year without each other.

I have sons of whom I am unapologetically proud. They forgave my mistakes in childrearing and embraced the lessons passed on through me from my parents, and have become thoughtful, considerate, wonderful young men. I’m not sure exactly what I did right, but I’m so glad I did.

And then there was Sophia.

As I approach the anniversary of her death, I feel her loss more strongly than ever. She was my beautiful silk scarf, a little exotic, a little fragile, definitely exquisite in her grace and joy in life. We had a bond that was born of struggle, as we worked through her pain aggression, her food allergies, her hip and elbow dysplasia and finally her cancer.

She taught me patience, determination, forgiveness, and faith. She approached each day, even when I knew she was in pain, with such courage and strength that I was in awe. She knew how to stretch the envelope – whether helping convince my vet that a raw diet was not some sort of fringe cult behavior, or helping me learn about canine health, positive reinforcement, and not leaving eyeglasses or Pringles cans or First Editions of books out where a curious puppy could get to them. After all, exploration is the the start of knowledge!

Even with four other dogs in the house when I lost her, and then the addition of Hagar, I miss her more than I can begin to say. As a friend wrote when she lost her own Berner, as much as she appreciated how lucky she was and as much as she appreciated the outpouring of sympathy and support, she just wanted her girl back. I still wish I could give her one more, ten more, 100 more hugs, hand her a few more turkey necks, cajole her a few more times to come back inside so we could go to bed.

But she isn’t coming back. And it hurts.

I still feel so lucky to have shared almost eight years with her. I know that few people have the kind of relationship with their dog that I had with her. I still see her, hear her, sense her presence in times of both quiet and chaos. I know that she, like my parents, my sisters, my kids, will always be a part of me, a part of who I am and what I do, and for all of them, I give thanks.

Thank you for being here, for sharing so much with me, for helping me be a better person. Were it not for the love, there would be no grief.

 

Loss, love, life

Eighteen days ago my father died. It has, since then, been something of a whirlwind of activities, emotions, travel, tasks – enough so that it is hard to come to terms with the very permanent change in my family’s life.

I wrote a post to him at Father’s Day, and since then have realized more than ever how much a part of me, my sisters, my sons, and my nieces and nephews he is and will always be.

He truly provided the bedrock on which our lives are built. He gave us the tools to continue that construction, he was determined that he would make sure his children were safe and secure. He did.

I closed my part of his memorial with this comment, and it is one I believe all that more strongly after returning home and seeing the tail end of a rainbow.  I know that some of you know what that told me.

My father always made me feel that I had a guardian angel. And I did.

I do.

Simple gifts

I never knew what I had done to deserve you

I only knew that you brought joy and peace and love

Your needs so simple

Your gifts so great

How I wish I could keep you by my side all my life

But I can’t

You are a visitor, cherished, loved

When it is time for you to go

I cannot hold you back

I can fight the ravages of disease or age

But when your eyes, your heart say “enough”

I have one gift I can give you

Wrapped in my tears

Decorated with pieces of my heart

I will never forget you

All the gifts you have given me

The only one I can give you now

I will grieve today

Tomorrow I will tell the stories

And I will find the shadow of a smile

Which will grow each day

Your lessons, your gifts, will grow

I will never be whole

I will survive

And I will remember the laughter

The companionship

The accomplishments

Even the pain

But mostly the love

You were a treasure beyond price

Thank you for the years you gave me

They will live in my heart forever

Life

Those of us who are parents have an instinct to protect our children from all manner of harm. That’s a wonderful wish, but sometimes it can keep our children from experiences that enrich their lives.

My mother and her sister didn’t have pets when they were growing up. My grandfather had had a dog when he was a boy, and when that dog died he was devastated. He vowed that his children would never experience that pain. He made that vow out of love for his daughters, the desire to protect them from hurt. But it also meant that they did not have the responsibility or the joys of pet ownership that they might have had.

My father did have a dog when he was a boy, and there are times he still misses that dog. When any of his children bring our dogs when we visit, the expression on my father’s face says it all – he remembers the fun, the companionship, the security, and the joy his dog gave him and he finds joy in knowing that his children have that same experience.

Our dogs teach us a lot about patience, responsibility, compassion, strength and love. They teach us about caring for another sentient being, about pride in accomplishment, about finding the celebration in the moment. And they teach us about pain, and loss, and honoring a life well-lived.

I would love to spare my children pain and grief, but I cannot. And I know that those are just the other side of the coin from love and joy. I don’t know how you can have one without the risk of the other.

And I would never want to shield my children from love.

As the Garth Brooks song says:

“I could have missed the pain
But I’d have had to miss the dance “

In Memory of Sophia

On December 10, 2008, I lost my sweet Sophia to malignant histiocytosis, the bane of the breed for Bernese Mountain Dogs. She was weeks shy of her 8th birthday. This was written for her and for the Border Collie, Bandit, who came before her.
If the vet and I are right, the day Bandit died of hemangiosarcoma was the day Sophia was born.

———————

It seems like only yesterday that I was entrusted with your care.

You had no reason to trust me, and plenty of reasons not to, but you decided that you would be the one who went home with me.

It seems like only yesterday that we struggled for trust and cooperation. I still hadn’t learned all that you had to teach me, although you tried every way you could to get my attention. I finally learned how to listen, and the change in our relationship was remarkable. We found a companionship and connection that few beings ever know.

It seems like yesterday that I added a few more to the household. It took a little while for you to realize that they weren’t leaving again at the end of the day. But you came to love them, tolerate them and teach them, as you had taught me. And somehow, no matter how many there were out in the yard or wandering in the house, it was your face that I searched for, your silky fur that let me know I was home.

BARC Beauty Sophia, my treasure

It seems like yesterday that I watched as more white and grey crept into your fur, as you walked more slowly and carefully when your already challenged body started to show signs of wear, though your grin was still there and I could see you thinking of what mischief you could make to ensure laughter and joy.

It seems like yesterday that our world fell apart. Knowing that time was short didn’t seem to make it any easier to squeeze every ounce of joy, companionship, activity, camaraderie, and quiet repose into every cherished moment. Heroic measures would have meant more pain as much as they might have bought more time, and I couldn’t do that to you.

It seems like yesterday that you looked into my eyes and told me it was time. I knew what I had to do, and I made you that promise. And so I let you go, holding you through that final release, that last gift I could give to you

It seems just hours ago that I brought your ashes home, that your buddies and I tried to console one another recalling some of your wilder antics. My tears fell like rain into their fur, they seemed to understand. They, too, feel your absence, but are more at peace with it than I can ever be.

In time, I know, you will somehow lead me to another little girl in need. And she will be everything I could hope for. We may have to struggle a bit for trust and cooperation, but you taught me well. She will grow up into a wonderful companion. She will take what you taught me, and help me move forward without ever, ever losing sight of yesterday.

Tonight I will weep as I sometimes do when you loss feels most fresh.

Then I will remember that you’re not really gone, just waiting. Waiting until I’m ready. Which I can’t be as long as any of the others are depending on me. Tomorrow I will pull myself together and move ahead, listening, building trust, finding joy.

Just like we did yesterday.