Our dog Sam yelps. This is what he does when he needs my attention. It wasn’t always this way. When I’d come home I used to hear the skittering of his nails across the hardwood floor before I would see him. Then moments later 80 pounds of white fur and exuberance would barrel into me from around the corner. But it’s different now. Sam yelps to let me know where he’s at in the house, so I can come and find him. He is old. His legs no longer work. Father time has come for him. I’m just not ready to let him go. He is my friend. My best friend. At times he’s been my only friend.
The noise he makes is not a whine.
It is not a whimper. It is not a wail. It is a cry for help.
Help me… Help me friend. I cannot walk.
I remember the first day his legs gave away and he fell to the floor. He looked up at me stupefied. He looked up for me for an explanation. He looked up at his best friend for help. I remember not having the words to explain it to him.
Some days when I come home, I find him in the living room looking out on places where his legs used to carry him. When I enter the room, he looks at me and I look at him. It’s hard for me to look at him. I know his time is measured in minutes, hours, days. I know that the cancer eating away at him will soon be too much for him. But I also know he won’t let go easily. I know he will hold on longer – longer than he should – because he thinks that’s what I want. And because he’s a proud, strong dog who wants to make sure the rest of our family is okay. It’s a duty he’s carried across his broad-chest swollen with pride for the last 13 years.
It crushes me to know that when his times comes – I’ll be the one who has to make the decision for him – for us. All dog owners know this is one of the hardest decisions we have to make in life. There is nothing humane or pleasant about it. I only hope that when the time does come I have the strength to do what is right for – my friend, my best friend, at times my only friend.
There are good days. Days when he smiles and wags his tail as I pick him up and carry him to the backyard to do his business. There are bad days. Days when I can see shame tinged across his face because I do have to carry him. Days when I can’t get to him in time and he’s lying in a puddle of his own urine. The look on his face is one of complete embarrassment and humiliation. I don’t know which one of us feels worse, him or I.
I believe dogs have a sense of pride and dignity. And I promise myself I won’t let him live an undignified life. Every day I ask, “Sam, please let me know when it’s time to go old friend.”
Sadly, tragically, heartbreakingly… Sam lets us know.
Last Friday morning when we came home Sam was in the pool. The same pool he’d swam in for thirteen years. The very same pool he’d dive into and retrieve the ball over and over again. Only this time it wasn’t the same Sam that went into the pool.
The legs that would no longer carry him, were no longer enough to help him swim. They were no longer enough to let him get to the stairs. They were no longer enough to save his life. My friend, my best friend, at times my only friend… drowned.
I’d like to believe that he knew we didn’t have the strength to do what was necessary… and that his time had come… and that we were keeping him alive for us… and that this was his proud, strong, dignified way of letting go.
We’ll never know for sure, but there are empty places looming large inside of me. I… we miss him.
He is my friend. My best friend. At times my only friend.
Good night, sweet Prince.
Good night.
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