One Weekend to Live

My dog Java went on permanent dog vacation Monday.

I think that sounds nicer than saying he was euthanized or put down. Java had oral melanoma cancer for almost two years. A huge baseball sized tumor in his top and lower mouth, making it almost impossible to eat or drink.

Doctors didn’t think he would last more than a couple months, but he chugged along on magic time despite the odds. These past few months, the stoic black Labrador had begun to fade away bit by bit. Sleeping more, wanting to engage less, not wanting to go outside at all. It was not fair to him to keep prolonging his life because I needed my constant companion. So, we set the date for the "vacation."

The whole weekend, I couldn’t help but contemplate my own life. If I were a dog, what would I want to do on my last days here on earth? Eat, eat and eat. So all weekend, we ate only the best things that I knew any person or dog would love: hot dogs, steaks, biscuits with gobs of strawberry jam and bacon by the pound.

It’s funny how my dog’s last days were ironically how I would like to spend my own. Sitting in the sunshine, listening to great music, having my family by my side, enjoying the laughter of my friends. Sunday morning, I took him for a walk and let him off the leash to be free to smell, track and wander as much as he pleased.

I have to say taking him to "check out" was one of the hardest things I've done. I kept sitting in the parking lot, feeling grief stricken and guilty about what I was about to do. I kept hoping hoping to muster up some sort of enlightened grounded feeling, knowing his moments were ticking down. But it never came and I wept uncontrollably like a small child. Part of me was embarrassed at how upset I was over this dog. After all, it's a dog, not a person. The huge crashing wave of grief surprised me. I loved this dog in ridiculous ways and now I had to let him go.

We always called Java our “angel dog” sent here on earth as a gift to watch over us. And for 12, almost 13 years, he has watched over our family. He has always been with me when I was feeling alone or blue or just needed something to snuggle. He was there in our very first home, he was there to welcome my son, he was always there. He welcomed me home every day -- ready with a wag, a smooch and a happy hello.

Now I come home and I can't help but feel a bit empty. I keep expecting him to round the corner, shake and stretch from behind the couch after an afternoon nap. Each day is a slow remembering that he is not here. In little ways it seeps into my heart how significant he was to our lives. He was a great dog. Perhaps the best dog. I keep saying to myself every day "the great circle of life continues." It gets a bit easier to know this too is part of loving.