I was going
to write a July Favorites post before being sidetracked by the Scandinavian
Festival, but something has happened that I think deserves more attention.
Namely, I lost a dear friend yesterday afternoon, around 5 o'clock. I'm the kind
of person who has a hard time speaking about things that touch me deeply, and
so I'm going to write his eulogy here. He deserves it.
Almost
exactly eleven years ago, a little nine year old girl went to an outdoor mall
with her family: Mom, Dad, and baby brother. She went shopping with her mother
while her father took the little toddler to look at puppies in the pet shop
window. When she came out, her father walked up to her mother and said,
"you know, they have this cute little Rhodesian Ridgeback/Lab/Rottweiler
puppy for sale." The little girl only vaguely grasped the concept of dog
breeds, but when she and her brother heard "puppy" they immediately
joined in the petition. As a result, the little girl got to carry home her
family's brand new addition, the most adorable little bundle of fluff, energy,
new puppy smell, and doggie kisses. Her Dad named the new dog Samson because
he happened to read that part of the Bible recently and liked that story.
In
hindsight, it doesn't seem that long ago. I can sort of remember playing with
him as a puppy. He couldn't quite master the concept of fetch, but we spent a
lot of time playing keep away. My Mom used to call him Samson Shmancy because
he liked sneaking into my room, stealing toys, and then prancing through the
house with them as if he was quite proud of himself.
Samson was a
great family dog. He loved all of us kids and spent hours outside playing in
the yard with us when he was younger. He was also incredibly patient with the
little ones at times when a less good-natured dog would've snapped. I have many
memories of rescuing him from probing baby fingers and knees after my sisters
were born. When our older dog, Sooner,
died, I can remember cuddling with Samson and feeling much better. I nicknamed him my teddy bear after a while,
because he loved being petted, kissed, and hugged.
I also don't
remember him ever growling or barking at us, except when our rough-housing
became too rough. It was almost as if he was trying to warn us to knock it off
before someone got hurt. But nothing compared to his protective fits when low
flying planes or thunderstorms passed our house. That was the only time he
would run outside and turn "dangerous." He'd bark and growl at the
sky like he was going to teach it a lesson until the evil noise passed. As he
grew older, it became harder for him to run and play, but his good nature never
became less sweet.
In fact,
when I noticed he had trouble getting up from lying on the floor four days ago,
it wasn't hard to brush worry aside. How could something be wrong when he was
in such a good mood? His tail still wagged, and he still raised his head and
perked his ears when I petted him or said his name. It was probably just his
aging joints growing sore because he was lying on a newly laid wood floor.
The next
day, my Mom expressed concern that something could be seriously wrong this
time...not just another bout of joint pain. I didn't believe her. Healthy dogs
like Samson don't die at eleven years old. The last big dog we had died at
thirteen, and that was only because of cancer. We would've seen signs of cancer
before, right? Samson had to have at least another two years left in him...at
least.
Twelve hours
later — the next morning — my parents took him to the Vet Hospital to be put
down. He wasn't eating or drinking (hadn't for days apparently), and he
couldn't move at all. I felt racked with guilt because I'd been too busy with
festival preparations to notice how quickly he was going downhill. But as my
Mom and brother (now a teenager) loaded him in the car, he wagged his tail and
looked at all of us with his big, sad, brown eyes. After seeing that, I prayed the vet might be
able to find something...anything to save him.
Well, they
tried. Samson had a history of benign
tumors around his abdomen, and one
unseen tumor had grown inside his body until it overcrowded all his digestive
organs. They removed the tumor, but the
blood loss was too much. Even after a transfusion he didn't recover. We were going
to give him a little more time before we put him down this morning if he didn't
get better, but he died of natural causes yesterday afternoon.
About an
hour before he died, however, I got to go visit him with the family. I expected to see a
weakened version of Samson, but I wasn't expecting the nearly dead version.
That's when I suspected he wasn't going
to make it. This wasn't Samson. It didn't matter how bad things got before, he
never acted like this. He didn't flinch when I touched his head, and his brown
eyes looked more black. I didn't say anything to anyone else, especially my
siblings, but I knew deep down he wasn't coming home. I knew it was the last
time I was going to see him alive.
We got the
phone call about an hour later.
He was a
good boy, and I miss him already. There will be other puppies in the future,
but he'll always be my first puppy. And
just like he didn't necessarily "replace" the two previous family
dogs (who were also amazing animals that I miss dearly), he won't be replaced
by the next one. Our hearts are just going to get a little bigger.
In the
meantime, we have our other dog, a seven year old beagle named Delilah. I don't
think she's really begun to miss Samson yet, but I know that having her around
makes it a lot easier on the rest of us. She's not quite as cuddly as he was either,
but she's close enough. It's weird having only her puttering through the house,
but it's something.
The hardest
part of yesterday was when I went to clear the counter after dinner that night.
Samson always tried to sneak meat bones when we weren't looking, so I have a
habit of piling them on one plate and pushing them to the middle of the counter
until I can throw them away. Halfway through this task, I remembered that
Samson wasn't here anymore. He never will be again.
I
didn't cry when it hit me though. Remembering him in the hospital helped me see that there
really wasn't another way. He's in Dog Heaven, where he deserves to be — where
he can chase all the planes, jump off all the porches, and eat all the juicy
bones he wants to. That doesn't mean it doesn't hurt, and I'll probably cry a
lot before I let it go. But that does help...a lot.
I love you,
teddy bear. Goodbye...for now.
