Introduction

Me-tas-ta-size:  1.  Pathology.   (of malignant cells or disease-producing organisms) to spread to other parts of the body by way of the blood or lymphatic vessels or membranous surfaces.

This is the word that came into my vocabulary last week in a very personal way when my Golden Retriever, Buddy, was diagnosed with hemangiosarcoma, a large, malignant tumor on his spleen which had metastasized to his liver.

It only took a minute for Buddy to go from a healthy, playful, albeit a little arthritic, 11-year-old Golden to standing mid-step, frozen, with a look of panic and fear in his eyes.  After getting him to our vet and having tests done, they found a large mass (read “tumor”) on his spleen that had ruptured and he had been bleeding internally.  However, it seemed that the bleeding had stopped temporarily. 

Being that this was a Saturday afternoon, our vet was unable to operate until Monday, and we were sent to an emergency veterinary hospital.   There, the only choices we were given was to have emergency surgery immediately – “And this is the estimate of your surgery, money up front, please” – a sum that was way beyond anything we could have come up with at a moment’s notice; euthanasia; or to take our boy home and pray that he would not bleed out before Monday when our vet could operate on him.  Saying many prayers, we took him home and watched him closely from Saturday night to Monday morning.  Needless to say, I didn’t get much sleep, watching his every breath and move.  Sunday though was an amazing day.  He was weak but happy.  His tail was wagging, he had his ball in his mouth, and he wanted to play.  We kept him as quiet as possible and smothered him with love.  By Sunday evening my face was chapped from all his licking, but I didn’t care.  Neither of us could get enough.  It was a perfect day.

Buddy was still with us on Monday.  He had his surgery and was able to come home Tuesday.  His energy has picked up each day, and he often looks at my partner and I wondering why we’re not letting him do all the things he likes to do.  He doesn’t seem to understand the meaning of the word “recuperate,” and want to do a lot more than the vet suggested is advisable during this initial period. 

The lab results confirm the suspicious spots on his liver are malignant.  His life expectancy has shrunk to 1 to 3 months.

Now, there are those people who would say to just euthanize him now.  However, most of the “dog” people I know have agreed that each good day they have is a gift, and you do what you can – within your own personal means – to make sure your animal is comfortable and happy and has a good quality of life.  Being that I am on my third generation of Golden Retrievers, I have had to make that decision we all dread; I am capable of making that hard choice.  But I also believe that you can’t undo death; it’s final; and you better make damned sure that the time has come.  All my animals have let me know when they were ready, they’re tired or in pain.  At that moment I know what has to be done and I do the right thing. 

But now is not that time.

Right now as I’m writing, Buddy’s laying down next to me, his ball nestled between his two front paws, ready to play.   He nudges my elbow now and then to let me know he’s there and that he’s looking for some love and affection.  In my heart I know I am making the right choice.

Watching Buddy this last week, I’ve reflected on his life and everything that I’ve learned from him – in fact, from each of my dogs.  They teach me lessons on how to live life and how to love.  I don’t know how long I’ll have Buddy with me.  But instead of focusing on the cancer, I’m taking this time to concentrate on all the lessons that my boy has taught me and to apply what I’ve learned to how I approach my life.

Lesson 1: It's always play time

Buddy is psycho about playing ball; he always has been.  There’s scarcely a time when he doesn’t have one or more of his collection of balls within reach, and he’s always quick to grab one up when given the slightest encouragement.  He even sleeps with a ball next to his head just in case, at 3:00 in the morning and you wake up and have to run to the bathroom, you feel the sudden uncontrollable urge to play, he’s up and ready to go.  Over the years he’s gathered quite a collection of different sizes and colors and textures of balls, and he works his way through them all.  Of course, usually the one he wants – NOW, if you please – is the one that’s under the sofa or under the stove.  I’ve even seen him nudge the ball with one of his front paws under some furniture and then look at me with the biggest, saddest eyes.  He’s got me trained nicely to check under wherever he’s sitting and pull out the offending play toy.  You know, there might be three or four balls easily within his reach, but that’s the one he’s got to have.  He always gets such a goofy, happy look on his face when he finally gets it back that I don’t have the heart to make him wait.  As we get into one of the many games he’s come with, within a short time he’s so happy he can’t contain himself and he starts to snuffle and snort with joy.

I watch him and realize that whatever you’re doing, do it with a playful, loving heart and nothing ever has to be boring or  intolerable. 

What I'm learning is to do more things that make me snort and snuffle.  

Lesson 2: Be creative

Talking about Buddy and his balls, I am constantly amazed by the games he’s invented.  Buddy believes that you should be able to do something with a ball no matter where you are.  He’s invented games for every room in the house that take on new twists and turns over the years.  If you’re sitting on the pot, there’s one game of “drop and roll the ball"; in the kitchen it’s drop the ball in a drawer that’s been left open or in the dishwasher when you’re not looking; etc.  But the game he and I like to play the most is called “under the dresser.”  

This is what the game has evolved into over the years:  I lie down at the end of the dresser.  Buddy comes and lies down against the dresser right beside me.  He’s got his ball, and he chews it and works it and plays with it while I wait for him to let it go.  I’ll tap on the ball telling him, “I want the ball,” and he just looks at me and continues to work the ball over.  At one point he feels it’s time and then lets go of the ball.  Then it’s my turn.  I can take the ball, place it on his head, between his paws, up against his nose or wherever, and he knows he’s not to grab it.  I roll the ball around his head, and he just watches it.  After a little time I take the ball and then roll it under the dresser.  The ball will roll somewhere under the dresser, sometimes coming out the other end, sometimes just rolling back and forth underneath.  He clamors to where the ball is going and if he can grab it, he pounces on it.  If it’s still stuck under the dresser, he reaches WAY under with one of his front paws and bats the ball until it’s close enough for him to grab onto.  Then he comes back over to me, throws himself down onto the ground next to me, and the game starts over, all the while falling into a snort/snuffle.

Bud’s always thinking outside the box.  With his inventiveness, all the games have changed over the years.  I’m amazed on how fresh and fun he keeps things, and what joy he takes from the smallest things. 

When I let myself go and look at what I’m doing in a different light, sometimes the most amazing things happen.  I realize my head is the only thing keeping me from achieving things beyond my own limited imagination.

Lesson 3: Reach out and touch someone

Several years ago my partner, Joe, spent six months in a nursing home learning to walk again after a hemorrhage damaged the nerves in his spine and he became paralyzed from the waist down.  During this time we got to see how people exist in these homes.  The facility Joe was at had an incredible staff who took loving care of their residents, but it’s heartbreaking to see how families can forget these people and to see the spirit leave these people in their "golden" years.  Joe was lucky to leave and get well, but that’s not the case for most of the people we got to know.

Remembering what it was like, we often take Buddy and his little sister, Rosie, over to the convalescent hospital and spend time with the residents.  Buddy LOVES these trips; and when we get there, he pulls me to the front door.  Once inside he knows where the people spend their time and looks for an empty lap.  Once I make sure that the person Buddy is going to likes dogs, I let him approach the person. 

At that moment something miraculous happens to Buddy and to the person.  Buddy goes from this rather clumsy, very enthusiastic, very large animal to a dog that’s quiet as can be and as gentle as a lamb.  He sits as close as he can to each person’s wheelchair and just looks up into the face of the person he wants to share with.  Watching the face of this lucky recipient, so often their eyes go from withdrawn and lost, realize they’re gazing into the eyes of an angel disguised as a Golden Retriever, and their eyes light up, they smile; and if they can, they pet his head.  All the while Buddy just gazes up at them unwaveringly like they’re his best friend.  He stays still while they pet him; and if the person is too weak to reach his head, I’ll hold their hand and guide it to his fur and let them wriggle their fingers in his long hair. 

Most of the people are able to talk, and usually Buddy reminds them of one dog or another that were in their lives, and Buddy and I sit with them listening to the stories they share.  Buddy seems to hear each word.  The ones that can’t talk express themselves with their eyes, and for a few moments we silently share this joy of Buddy together.  They’ll look at Buddy, look at me and smile, look at Buddy again.  At some point it’s time to move onto another person, and Buddy makes his way down the dining hall and around the halls touching each person he meets.  He seems to know which people aren’t fond of dogs and moves on to someone who might welcome his attention.

When we’re done with our visit, we all head back outside where Buddy once again becomes a big goofball and life moves on.

Buddy teaches me that no matter where you are, look into the eyes of the people around you and let them know they are loved.

Lesson 4: The Art of Being

One of my biggest life lessons came not from Buddy, but from my first male Golden, Teddy.  During the time we had Teddy, I was working hard at a very demanding job that meant there was always work I had to bring home along with everything else life brings.  It was easy for me to get lost in all the details of life and have many different thoughts going at the same time and never seem able to stay present in the moment.  Teddy had this way of knowing when I needed a break.  He’d set himself down in front of me and give me this look that meant it was time for a change. 

Ever since Teddy was a young pup, he was more of an observer of the world rather than an active participant.  He loved to just sit and watch what was happening around him.  When he’d get my attention, I knew it was time to grab a beach chair from the garage, rarely used any more, and head out to the front yard.  I’d plop myself into the chair, and Teddy would lay down next to me on the grass and just watch the world pass by. 

At first my head would be going a mile a minute thinking about this and that.  It spins like a top.  But within a short time my mind would stop racing and become still, and Teddy and I would just sit together and watch the birds flying around, people passing by, and listen to the sounds that the world makes around us.  I often talked about how Teddy taught me the Art of Being instead of the Art of Doing that I was so good at.   

Teddy’s been gone for about 10 years, yet I remember our times just “being” together, and I work on taking time to just sit and watch the world unfold before me.