You may remember that over a year and a half ago, Gracie was diagnosed with cancer. At the time, I thought I would lose her within three months, six at the most as we had decided not to treat it. With a few minor moments where we thought, "this is surely the beginning of her decline", she would bounce back within the week and be fine. Well, she is an impressive dog, but not invincible. The cancer caught up with her very quickly and very suddenly, and we had to have her put down yesterday (June 10th).
She had a type of lymphoma that had metastasized to the skin, and the vet had told us it was usually a very aggressive type of cancer. She did show signs in that she had chronic sores on her skin. Mostly small, scabby ones, but she had a doozy on her leg that kept opening up. It was that sore that gave me my biggest fear - would I have to euthanize my dog because a sore got too big and was getting too inconvenient for my daily life? I just couldn't fathom putting her down when she obviously felt fine physically. But we also weren't willing to fork out $600 for every sore that needed to be removed, because there were plenty more brewing. This is where the amazing healing comes in - that sore would be open and yucky, and then I would convince myself it was getting smaller, and then one day, sure enough, she would have intact skin again. I think that happened two or three times. That's my girl.
So I feel lucky that it was so obvious in the end. Four days ago I came home from a shopping trip after leaving her in her normal state of health, and she was suddenly extremely lethargic, would not move, and would not eat. I eventually got her to take a pain pill and prepared for the worst, but by morning she was back to normal, chasing her ball, and running out to the mailbox with me - so I wrote it off to a stomach bug. But then the next day she showed all of those ominous signs again. When she would try to walk, bless her heart, she would barely put weight on her back legs, and would give me the saddest look, like "What is going on, mom?" I started making calls about in-home euthanasia, as I couldn't stand the thought of taking her to the "back room" at the vet. As I was walking into work, I talked to Keith on the phone about what the vet said (about needing to have an exam first, not sure if they can come out, etc.). And he said, "we just need to do it, Em. Don't schedule an exam, we just need to schedule THE appointment". And even though I have been preparing for this moment for almost two years, and had myself convinced I was ready, the moment he said that, I broke down. He was so right and it was so real.
The vet called me back later in the day and said they could come to our house and no, we would not need to have an exam first. They couldn't come until 3:30 in the afternoon, so I called in sick, got Cam off to daycare and spent the time watching and waiting. Gracie was clearly uncomfortable, but she remained oh, so tolerant and stoic. Bless her heart, she made it down our three deck stairs (barely) went out for a poop and pee and even walked down the hill to go lay down in her favorite puddle. Every time she would walk out into the grass I would fear she was walking off to die and I wouldn't get to be with her for those last moments. But she always came back.
Finally they came. Very compassionate and appropriate professionals. Keith and I sat at her head, me sobbing into her ear, both of us stroking her the whole time, while the injection was given (an overdose of a barbituate which is the same med used for their anesthesia - so she assured me they just fall asleep - no paralyzing sensations or pain), and 20 seconds later she was gone. She moved her head for the needle poke, then she let out a big sigh and relaxed. The vet said it best, "You can rest now, Gracie". Their eyes don't close, so it was really hard to believe she was dead for a long time. She just looked like she was resting on her blanket as always. I laid with her for a while, stroking her beautiful, soft golden hair for the last time, then we wrapped her up and buried her in the middle of an oak tree patch, next to some big rocks. The deer bed down in this area most nights, so I like to think of her frolicking and chasing them all into eternity. Weirdly, actually placing her in the hole and throwing the dirt over her body was the hardest thing. It felt so final, and I spent the rest of the evening gazing out there thinking of her sweet body under all that dirt, when she should be behind me on her blanket.
Ah well, dogs just don't live as long as humans, and I had way more time with her than I ever expected after that diagnosis. She has been the best dog. More than a dog at times, a true companion and friend that brought us frustration at times for sure, but so many laughs and times of joy and times of pride. And I don't care what anyone says about Goldens, she was faithful to us.
I have many favorite things about her, but one of the best was the way she could read emotion. If I was visibly sad or crying, she would march right up to me and nose her way in, until I would pet her and assure her I was going to be OK. If I was mad at something and yelling and carrying on (like the first time our car was stolen), she would walk to the nearest desk, table or chair and hunker down and wait out the storm. If Keith and I would play fight, she would bark and jump and generally attack Keith until he stopped. And if we were happy and excited and dancing around or doing something silly, she would join in with her front paw prance and bark in joy.
Rocks. What started as a cute thing she would do in streams once in a while at about age 2, turned into a pathological obsession, bordering on psychosis. She got good at diving for rocks over the years, being able to completely submerge herself and stay under for impressive lengths of time to retrieve that one special rock. And she couldn't pass a stream or river without nosing around and getting one out. And while on hikes, especially familiar ones like Spencer Butte, once at the top, she would pick out a rock and carry it ALL THE WAY back to the car, only to deposit it on the ground by the door before jumping in.
She knew when we were leaving for anywhere, and didn't like being left behind. But she could especially tell the long trips as she would watch us pack up the car and thus park herself right by the car, not to move until she got to go in too.
She had a great memory. There are a few places we go every year if not more than once a year, and those places generally have water. As soon as we are out of the car at the destination, she starts to the water, knowing exactly which way, even if it involves a lengthy trail or a trot down a stretch of road. Usually she would turn and look at us and wait, but if we took too long (especially on hot days), she would take off without us, returning shortly....with a rock in her mouth. One of her funniest stories: For a while we rented a house on a regular city block in Eugene. We were about three blocks from a very 'Eugene' corner market that we would frequent regularly for milk, coffee, etc. Most times when we would go, we would emerge with a biscuit for Gracie. And most days there was an old man that hung out on the benches outside that had a bottomless bag of dog treats (the BIG ones), that he would feed like a chain smoker to our dog while we were inside. This house had a back yard that we shared and one day the gate must have been left open, because I received a phone call from the corner market informing us that our dog was there! It doesn't sound that funny as I write it, but we just chuckle at the image of her trotting down the street, knowing exactly where she is going and the rewards that lay at the end. I just wonder what triggered her brain to head on down to the store for a biscuit rather than vegging at the back door as usual.
This is the return trip....she remembered this watering hole, and wanted back in.
She was not much of a barker, so when she did bark at night, we usually paid attention. The second time our car was stolen, she let us know someone was out there that shouldn't be and although we brushed her off, she was right. And had we listened to her, we might have saved ourselves some time recovering our car and the bad guys might have been caught.
She hated and loved fireworks. In her younger days she would bark and try to bite them. In her older days, she would just bark. She also became a nervous wreck with thunder and lightening. She had to be close to us while the storm carried on.
Her best quality was her tolerance. Whether it was Keith's wrastling, Wiley's (the pug's) attempted fornication, or Camden's poking, prodding and hair pulling, she generally just sat back and tolerated it all. She very rarely showed any annoyance, and never showed any aggression.
She was a trooper, but was of course rewarded with many, many fun outings and a truly great life.
I could go on and on. She was a great dog. Loved to snuggle. I will admit she spent many a year sleeping with us in our bed, and many a year with her territory on the couch. This bad habit was broken when we left her for a year to travel and left her with people who didn't necessarily appreciate big hairy dogs on couches. She was easy to train and listened to us for the most part. We didn't do a lot of training, but she would heel, would go to her blanket when we told her, and could learn boundaries very quickly (when we moved to our new house she was no longer allowed upstairs on the new carpet, and it took her less than a day to figure that out).
She never failed to give me an ecstatic greeting when I got home, always with something in her mouth. She could not greet a person without first finding something to bring you, preferably a sock. She would talk when really excited, and shake that butt and whip that tail like nothing else.
Above all else, that is what I will miss the most - her unconditional love. There is nothing quite like it and it is what dogs are best at. I regret all the times I yelled at her and was annoyed at her for being underfoot (especially after Camden's arrival, bless her heart she got knocked way down the totem pole!). And I am so grateful that she was able to forgive me each and every time. Rest in peace my sweet girl. You will be missed, but never forgotten.
