This was supposed to be a very different column. One about how dogs mean so much to us. How those four-legged critters — with their dirty feet and ability to eat three-week-old shrimp shells, only to cough them up on the rug — can woo us over and become irreplaceable parts of our lives. And I guess it’s still about that.
But it was supposed to be about my brother’s dog, Oreo — a member of his band of rabble-rousing K-9s that I call the “country cousins.” She was an old girl — 17, for goodness sake — and had been part of our family for so long that the loss was felt by all when her body gave out and she had to be put to sleep.
Oreo was a big, dopey bear — you half expected to see her lugging around a honey pot and breaking into song. She had a permanent grin stretched across her face … like the one a child gets after walking into Disney World for the first time. It screamed, “WOWWWWW!” and Oreo would have that grin staring at a moth. She enjoyed life, even just sitting on the porch doing nothing, and there’s a lot to be said for that.
This column was supposed to be about her, and how dogs like Oreo work their way into our hearts. About them being constants in our lives, and that we always expect them to be there — like the sun coming up or that jar of never-used relish in the back of the fridge. How they will always be by our sides, or at least that’s what we think. And when one like Oreo goes, how it makes us take a long look at our own hounds and wonder about things we never have — or never wanted — to think about.
But that column seems so very long ago now. This column is now about my dog. A week after Oreo, we took my 14-year-old mutt, Chase, to see the vet. She had a little lump on her back end and was starting to have occasional problems going to the open-air bathroom.
We didn’t think much of it — fate isn’t so cruel to deliver more bad news when the old stuff still lingers. And that’s what we thought, right up until we heard it was not only a tumor, but an aggressive cancerous one digging in its heels for a fight.
Cancer!
It doesn’t make sense when you say it about a dog. I always expected Chase would wind down slowly like a child’s toy straining to keep going as her batteries wore out. Old age, yes, but not cancer.
I meant to ask in that original column, and I think I still will: Why do we let them become such important parts of our lives? As I told my wife, “It would be so much easier if she was just a dog.”
… just a dog …
Just an animal we feed in return for guarding the house. That we pat on the head like a barnyard animal. Just an animal. Just a companion or a pet or a cousin who came for a visit and made a home of the couch.
Only, dogs become so much more, don’t they? I don’t know why, but thank goodness they do.
We’re now finding out what the next weeks and months and hopefully years will mean for Chase. Of all our options and scenarios, none of them sound all that great.
But I’ve decided I can’t dwell on that — wondering how much longer she REALLY has. No, I have to dwell on making every single moment memorable. To never take for granted a walk or how much joy a good belly rub brings her. To never skip a trip to the beach because I’m tired, or ruin the exhilaration she gets after finding a stale shrimp shell. “What’s a rotten shrimp shell gonna’ hurt now? Go on. Dig in!” Every moment is special, no matter how many or how few are left.
I think I learned that from Oreo.
My brother said that the final decision was so tough for him because the dog was still there mentally, if not physically — she was still herself. Even on that last night she ate and wore the same silly grin on her face, right up until her final moment. Sure, she didn’t know what was coming, but I don’t think that would have mattered. Not with a dog like Oreo. She could make the most out of any situation — she could turn a nap into a work of art. She was happy just to be.
So I’m adopting that Oreo mindset — that every moment is precious and something to be thankful for. Something to be enjoyed. And I’m getting myself one of those happy-go-lucky dog grins. The one like my dog wears. We’re going to wear it together now. No matter what happens.