I am sitting in my cozy den, my little white dog lying on the floor beside me, enjoying the warmth of a fire.
It is a scene that has been repeated many times in this room where I work, play and socialize on my computer. No matter where I am in my house, Spanky, aka Mr. Spankford or Rat Bag, follows me, the ticky-tacking of his nails on the floor a cheerful reminder of his presence.
He knows his cues and in the kitchen sits patiently, hoping a scrap of food will hit the floor, or that the word ‘walk’ will be followed by his leash coming off the hook by the door. A squeak from one of his toys signals that his favourite game of fetch might be next. Since my husband died five years ago, this long-legged, gangly piece of fluff has been my main buddy, a living being that loves me without cause or reason, a warm presence beside me at night in an otherwise silent house.
Thanks to an understanding boss and colleagues, Spanky has been an office dog who, for the most part, snoozed quietly in the bed under my desk while I worked. That is unless he heard the rustle of a bag, indicating someone might have something delicious to eat and, more importantly, be willing to share.
As I glance down at him now, I see his breathing is very laboured. My little friend is losing his grasp on life and it’s breaking my heart. A Sunday morning emergency visit with Dr. Jim Clark, one of the best veterinarians and most compassionate human beings I have ever met, confirmed what I had been observing over the previous four days. Life was becoming more and more of a struggle for my heart buddy. Spanky had coped with epilepsy and a heart murmur for most of his 10 years with a wagging tail and a lust for life. An X-ray two weeks ago showed a cough that began in February was caused by his swollen heart pushing against his trachea. New medication was added to the slate and walks were reduced to flat land and fewer minutes. His last walk was a week ago.
In the next four days, Spanky’s health deteriorated quickly. A blood test Sunday revealed he was becoming dangerously anemic, probably the result of a tumour somewhere near the upper part of his stomach. We could have had several more tests done to find the origin of the latest complication, but the news, Jim assured me, would not be good.
So I have decided that, with Jim’s help, I will see Spanky safely on his way with dignity, holding him and telling him I love him, just as I always have. I look out on the grey day and see his toys littering the lawn, the dirt of the garden he dipped his paws into just this morning, the budding of new life on the trees.
And I know that for Spanky, life has come full circle.
I know that in the days and weeks to come, I will laugh at his remembered antics. In the meantime, I am holding him, feeling the warmth of this little being who has given me such joy, and wiping away the tears that are coursing down my cheeks.
Grief is part of the fabric of life. So is love. And, it is love, in the end, that softens grief.