An auto-immune disease I could handle because I have MS myself. It’s treatable – one can live with it. But cancer? The word consumed me. My brain couldn’t turn it off. My stomach churned. I wanted to vomit, but couldn’t. 18 years before, I’d lost one beloved cat to a massive brain tumor that I didn’t even know existed – until the day he fell over and couldn’t get up. He was gone three days later. We’d lost one “final refuge” dog to cancer (although no one knew it was cancer) just 8 months before. But Buddy? He’d shown no signs of anything being wrong until he’d suddenly stopped eating and drinking and become very lethargic just four days before.

Dr. Day was wonderful. He patiently explained all the pictures of various parts of his body. He kept the worst to last. “As you can see, he has a large tumor on his liver and a smaller one on his kidney.” I was shocked! “I don’t understand. How long has he had that tumor?” referring to the larger one. “Oh, I would say about 4-5 months.” “But how could we have missed that?! He didn’t show any signs of anything being wrong until he suddenly stopped eating and drinking a week ago and became very lethargic.” Dr. Day explained that with big dogs it’s quite common to not see any outward signs of anything being wrong. “Big dogs tend to be very stoic. They don’t want you to know there’s anything wrong until their bodies just can’t hide it any longer.” Dr. Day told me he’d have the biopsy results the following day and my vet would call to tell me what the recommended course of action would be.

Of course I couldn’t sleep that night. I tried focusing on other things – reading, working on my computer – but it was impossible. I walked restlessly around the house, doing things I don’t remember, just to keep myself occupied until that fateful call from my vet. “I’m sorry, Julie, but the cancer has already metastasized, so there’s nothing we can do but to keep him as pain-free as possible for the amount of time he has left.” “How long do you think that will be,” I asked. “It’s hard to say … maybe weeks, possibly a few months. You will know when the time comes.”

Our vet put him on medications that would reduce, if not eliminate, the pain. Two days later, Buddy was like his old self – eating, drinking, running around, jumping to greet us when one of us was gone, doing all the tricks we’d taught him, tail wagging furiously all the time – the happy boy he’d always been. “Great,” I thought, “maybe the doctors were wrong.” But just in case they weren’t, Buddy got more kisses and lovings than ever before. I hoped for months rather than weeks, but it was not to be. Early morning exactly two weeks later, Buddy began pacing in circles, lying down and licking himself to try and stop the urine leaking like a stream, panting, circling some more, licking … repeat, repeat, repeat. At the stroke of 8:00, I called the vet to make that appointment. By 12:30, I couldn’t take it anymore. He’d been panting non-stop for an hour. It was clear he was in great pain. “Bring him in right away,” our vet said.

It’s a 30-minute drive from our house to our vet’s. I’ve traveled a lot in my lifetime and some flights have felt like an eternity, but that was one of the longest and most excruciating trips I’ve ever taken. By the time we got to the vet’s, Buddy could no longer get up. The techs brought a stretcher and carried him in. They laid him on the floor and I cradled his head in my lap. My husband, a big man who is usually very even-keeled, sat on the bench as if frozen in place, with tears streaming down his face. He looked like a very small boy unable to deal with this reality. Mercifully, it was over within minutes and our vet left us to say our final goodbyes. My husband and I held each other tightly, our bodies racking with sobs, until finally the tears subsided. We looked down at our boy, peacefully sleeping, and kissed him for the last time. He’d just turned 10 years old two months before.

Although there are times when some happening suddenly reminds me of Buddy and the tears flow, I can look back at our 9 years together and smile. My husband called him his chick magnet because wherever they went, “chicks” from 6 to 96 would come up and ask if they could pet him. They’d take one look into those big, soft, deep brown eyes, and go “awww…” And we can look out to one of the trees in our back yard, where Buddy’s ashes and two of our “final refuge” adoptees’ are co-mingled, and call out to them, “Hey, boys and girl, bet you’re having a blast in doggie heaven today!” And smile. Ahhh…