This one is not about prostate cancer or prostate therapy. This is my confession and apology to dog people everywhere. I’ll include cat people, too, assuming their experience may be similar, but I’ll restrict my references to dogs.
I have often heard dog owners refer to their pets as “my kids” or “my little girl” or “my boy” and the like, and it has always struck me as slightly strange if not totally bizarre. After all, I told myself, they are referring to dogs, not small humans. It seemed to me that using such terminology undeservedly bestowed near-human status to a mere animal. Furthermore, it made the owner seem a little silly. After all, a dog is just a dog.
And how much is a dog worth, anyway? How many dollars is it reasonable to relinquish for what sometimes appeared to me to be a dog’s excessive creature comforts? Exotic beds, clothes, travel gear, cuisine, and such. And if injured or seriously sick, why would people spend thousands of dollars to keep their dog ticking along for a few more months or years? No animal should be mistreated, but why not just get another dog?
I mean, really. It’s just a dog, right?
I’m writing this largely for me, for Baxter, for anyone who knew him, and for all who are willing to hear his story.
If you are already outraged at the views expressed above, well, so am I. I am horrified that they were mine. I believe and hope I have largely kept such judgmental stupidity to myself but fear I may have occasionally made comments aloud. If I have ever directed such thoughts or words toward you, I now wish to apologize publicly and profusely.
Sadly, now I get it.
It has been ten days since my 16½-year-old dog Baxter took his last breath, and only now am I able to talk about it. I know many of you have experienced the loss of a beloved pet, and nothing I say here will be news to you. That’s okay because I’m writing this largely for me, for Baxter, for anyone who knew him, and for all who are willing to hear his story.
An unexpected gift
With our frequent visits there, Lucy and I became fond of Baxter, and when my mother-in-law died in 2011 (just three months after I completed proton therapy), we happily inherited him. However, Lucy and I had already discussed having a dog and agreed it wouldn’t work with our lifestyle. Plus, neither of us had ever had a dog in our adult lives. So Baxter’s arrival was met with both of us asking, “What do we do now?”
Well of course, we figured it out. Baxter had always been blissfully happy as strictly an outside dog—very common in rural areas—which made our role relatively simple. We made a warm place for him in the garage, put a well-outfitted doghouse on the porch, placed bowls of water in several convenient locations, and fed him the same food he was accustomed to in the same bowl he had always used. And with each passing day, we loved him a little more.
And I loved it. Baxter made it so easy. I do not exaggerate by saying he never did anything wrong, never needed our training or reprimand, and somehow always knew what to do and what not to do. He was a perfect and constant companion for me during retirement. We religiously took a morning walk in the woods or around the pond, or pretty much wherever he wanted to lead me. It was the high point of his day, and always started me off on the right foot, like a morning meditation.
Outside-in
I would never have expected Baxter’s gradual transformation from being a totally outside dog to a completely inside one. We first brought him into the house to temporarily monitor his recovery after an injury requiring the infamous “cone of shame.” He used the opportunity to demonstrate that he could be a perfect inside dog, too, and we all kind of liked it.
We had become nearly inseparable pals, and I had fully become “a dog person.”
Seizures
Then, without warning, everything changed. In September 2019 Baxter had two consecutive major seizures that put him the ER for four days. He could not eat, drink, or move on his own. The doctors were preparing me for a discussion of euthanasia, and I was overwrought with grief unlike any I could have anticipated feeling for “just a dog.”
The doctors were preparing me for a discussion of euthanasia, and I was overwrought with grief
But Baxter was not finished yet, and after four days, a healthy hospital bill, and enough tears to float a boat, he was amazingly able to come home. With mutual dedication to the task, we gradually rekindled all aspects of the life we had before the incident. Our walks around the pond took on new significance. I was ever so thankful to have been spared losing Baxter, an inevitability for which I was not yet ready.
Well, now he’s gone and I’m still not ready. I know every day of the year and a half since his amazing recovery has been a bonus, but it’s still too soon. And even as he gradually declined both physically and mentally, he continued to do all he could to please me until his last day. Hopefully he knew I endeavored to do the same for him.
Wake-up calls
I am grateful to have had the luxury of providing a peaceful exit for Baxter, resting comfortably and calmly on my lap without fear or pain, as the rain fell outside and the tears fell from my eyes and Lucy’s.
I remind myself that the grief I feel from losing Baxter is proof of the joy he gave me for so many years. And now, knowing that a mere dog can give so much joy, I promise you that the phrase “just a dog” will never again enter my mind.
… the grief I feel from losing Baxter is proof of the joy he gave me for so many years.
Just as prostate cancer was a wake-up call, losing Baxter was another. It seems we are destined to receive such wake-up calls periodically throughout life to remind us to pay attention. They are reminders to notice the good things, give them undivided attention, and love them. They will not be here forever, and neither will we. And although we know it is important to make the most of every day, it seems we need these wake-up calls to remind us to actually do it.
I hope you will click/tap the thumbnail photos to enjoy the full-size images. And if you have a similar story, please share it with me. Thank you for letting me share mine with you, and for helping me honor Baxter.
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