You were five weeks old when I first held you in my arms. A little ball of Boxer, you only weighed 5 pounds. You fit in your Dad's shirt pocket. It didn't take long for you to grow into a fun-loving and mischievous Big Brown Dog. Who cares if you were really brindle, you were Big Brown.
You chewed up the baseboard in our apartment. You chewed up our couch cushions and had farts that were deadly. You quickly laid waste to every toy we got you and you were hungry for more. Rawhides never had a chance against your powerful jaws. And yum, you loved kitty cookies in the litter box. So much so that we had to move it
to where you couldn't get to it. We bought you the sturdiest kick ball we could find, but you deflated it 15 minutes and then you found a way to sneak out the door to toss it around some more. And oh dear, we pulled quite a few long blades of grass out of your butt, and you almost seemed embarrassed. When I was 7 months pregnant and exhausted, just wanting to rest, I came home to a mountain of styrofoam balls and a former bean bag chair. Oh the fun you must have had! After our daughter arrived, you would sometimes feast on wipes and dirty diapers. I realized what you had been doing when I would find regurgitated wipes on the floor. At first I had no idea what it was, but then I caught you checking out the bathroom garbage can for "goodies." Silly dog.
I knew it wouldn't be long before I had to do it, to tell you goodbye. Your tumor which had been benign for so long started bleeding profusely and when it was removed, Dr. E. said cancer had gone everywhere. Tumors popped up all over your body. We tried chemo once, but it didn't do anything. We tried so hard to make you better. I knew I had to bring you to end your suffering, but I wanted to make sure it was the right time. You were never going to get any better, as ravaged as you were by that damned cancer. Still every time I looked into your big sweet brown eyes, I hoped that day would not come.
Yesterday I knew it was time. You were bleeding so much, lethargy had taken over your once playful and indominatable spirit. I didn't want to see you this way anymore and I don't think you were having any fun just laying about, or licking your sores that would never heal. I was giving you palliative care- Benadryl, Pepcid, Prenisone to counteract the side-effects of the cancer, but what kind of life was that, considering how joyously you once had tackled your life. This goddamned illness had taken away your zeal and what we called your "butt-wiggling excitement."
Blood pooled in the back seat on the way to the vet, a kind woman who tried so hard to prolong your life with the best quality possible. Evn she knew it was time this time. There was no going back. She and her assistants helped you up onto the exam table which I regretted was so cold and sterile, but how else could it be? You lay there, panting and bleeding, and you had no idea what was happening. Just a few hours earlier you were laying waste to a mega rawhide we bought you. And I had been spoiling you by feeding you everything you wanted: meat, cheese, crackers, cookies. You looked at me with that sad, silly face and I was gone. You got whatever you wanted.
And I felt that somehow you wanted me to end your suffering. If you could have spoken, you might have asked us, "What took you so damn long?"
I cradled your head in my hands and I kissed you over and over and thanked you for being such a good dog. I drank in your doggie smell so I could never forget it, and as the medicine took hold, your panting faded away. Slowly, slowly.
Then it was over.
The finality of it was what broke my heart. No more big silly grins during the day. No more "happy fun teeth." No more playing "feet" or "pocka pocka" or "glue mouth." No more seeing that urgent "I have to pee NOW" look. No more wagging of your short tail. No more sleeping back to back with your friend, Mazie.
But also no more panting. No more constant licking and scratching. No more bleeding everywhere and trying to lick it up. No more pain. No more worrying if I would come home and find you in a pool of blood or worse, hear you crying out in pain or going into shock.
Dr. E. said that very little drug was needed to help you on you way out. She said that was a sign that you were very near the end anyway. That was a great consolation. I wanted to be sure that it was the best, most humane thing to do. She assured me it was.
I sat there with you, still holding you, stroking your brindle coat, still crying. But I was relieved that you were at peace, and the absence of your labored breathing made me feel even more comforted.
It was time to let you go, my sweet Brules. We'll always remember you as the robust and glorious dog you were. Nothing can ever take that away.
We told our daughter that you had to go to the moon when she asked where you were. Whenever she wanted to see you, all she had to do was look up at the night sky. She was satisfied with that explanantion, and to tell the truth, so was I.
We love you, Big Brown Dog.
