Goodbye Samson

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.