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I may write something new, but the country song I came home to threw a wrench in my emotional works as well. Upon arriving home, I received a call from my pet sitter that Hank wasn't doing well. I rushed to pick him up, then rushed to the vet, where the news was not good. The worst of news, in fact.
Hemangiosarcoma is a blood tumor cancer to which golden retrievers are prone. It's one of those bastard cancers that doesn't present until it's entirely too late for an intervention. Many dogs simply die on the spot once the tumor ruptures and begins to bleed. I've been "lucky." Two of my four goldens have died from H-sarcoma, but I've had a day or so to spend with them and "get our shit in order."
With Hank, that meant taking him home, making him comfortable, and making an appointment with Dr. Anthony Smith. God bless vets like Anthony Smith. Dr. Smith provides in-home euthanasia, so your pet can die in as much comfort as possible in its own surroundings. He is understanding and gentle and, as much as possible, allows the pet owner to direct how things play out.
This is the third time in twelve years I've invited Dr. Smith into my home. You might think he's a person you never want to see again, but I'm of the opposite view. If I'm going to own pets (and having done so my entire life, I'm not likely to break the habit now), it's a comfort to know Dr. Smith is there when the time comes. And it always does. Seeing him reminds me there are people out there who do difficult jobs so the pain of others can be borne more easily, that while my current situation might suck the biggest of big balls, I will love another pet enough to put myself in the same situation all over again.
I was so very lucky to have Hank in my life. I had recently lost my first golden, Dakota, and that loss was so great I swore I would never get another dog. It would just be me and my remaining golden, Jake, to the end. Nine months later, a scrawny, obviously beaten and abused Hank wandered into my yard. He was full of scabbed-over wounds. He had lost half his tail to frostbite. But it was love at first sight, and he rarely let me out of his sight from then on. He would walk backwards or sideways so he never had to take his eyes off me (I never had DNA tests done, but I swear he was part Lipizzaner stallion). He would smile on command, but also every damn time I walked through the door.
Hank morphed from an abused shell who was afraid of everything (and yes, I even saw him, quite hilariously, almost jump out of his skin at the sight of his own shadow) to a confident dog who loved everyone and everything. He was never happier than when running across the neighborhood Bengal cat, who would rub noses with him and allow him to check out every inch of feline goodness.
Dr. Smith came at 11:00 a.m. yesterday morning. For the previous 24 hours, Hank and I lay on the floor together. I tried to look at and touch every inch of him, knowing soon enough I'd have to call on memory for those pleasures. He was comfortable, but never left his bed, moving only his head to adjust it from my lap to my chest and back. We talked. I told him how lucky I was and what a good dog he was. I swore I would never do this again at the same time I promised him I would. That I would save someone else, which really meant I would let another someone else save me.
All too soon, I helped Dr. Smith load him into the carrier and watched as he was wheeled away. For the first time in my life, I was without a dog. The energy in the house has changed. I dread going home today. But I will. And some day, another beaten, scrawny, frightened dog will find me and save me all over again.
But god damn I will miss this magnificent bastard:
