The Deep End

A week or two before Max died, I joined an online support group, at the suggestion of a colleague, for people who have dogs with cancer. I'm not normally a support group kind of gal, but Max's prognosis was terrible, and I just wanted to know what others were doing to help their doggies--and themselves--through a confusing and emotional time.

When Max died nearly two weeks ago, I "graduated," as it were, to the board for people whose dogs have died from cancer, and I admit, it was comforting to know that others were crying over their babies and I wasn't totally nuts. Being on these boards, however, pretty much made me feel worse rather than better, hearing all the terrible stories of heartbreak and canine courage and knowing that it soon would be my turn. Ask not for whom the bell tolls--it tolls for thee.

I've more or less weaned myself off the support groups now, but my time there has led me to some odd observations. For example, our society has absolutely no grip on the idea of death. We fear it mightily. Once upon a time, we were all familiar with it, even in our human children, and we accepted it to some degree. The Victorians actually gloried in it, raising mourning to a creepy, historic high. No one knew how to get mileage out of a loss more than a Victorian.

But now we not only can't handle the death of our fellow humans with any kind of acceptance apart from a grudging resignation, but we no longer can accept the fact that our pets move on. Don't get me wrong: I love my pets as much as, if not more than, anyone I know. I'm utterly devoted to them, and I did all I could to help Max and fight his cancer in the limited way I could. But we all must know, when we adopt any pet other than perhaps a parrot or a Galapagos turtle, that we will outlive them. Max was 10 1/2; I'm 45. He was an old man; after loving him for 10 years, I'm still just middle-aged.

While the people on the boards were unceasingly kind and patient, I encountered a tremendous amount of denial and breast beating. I'm not against anything we humans do to ease our pain, so long as it harms no one else, but I felt a bit perplexed by some of the attitudes, particularly the rallying cry of, "It's not fair!"

Of course it's not fair. As my mom always told me, life isn't fair. And she should know, because the way she died was so grossly unfair that it just proved her point. If euthanasia for humans were legal, we would have gladly helped Mom over the "Rainbow Bridge." Fortunately for our furry friends, we can give them the peaceful passing my mom was denied. That's not fair at all. But I'm glad we could do it for Max.

What's odd to me is that the ones who seem to have the hardest time letting go are the ones with strong faith. This makes no sense to me. I'm not a person of faith, but I was raised that way; in the faith of my childhood, Jesus was there to take us when we die. There is no more pain or suffering, just union with God. Why, then, are people so afraid of it, even for their pets? In Christianity, what could be better than being with Jesus? Why, then, are we willing to put our human and animal loved ones through appalling physical torture just to keep them from Jesus?

Godless though I am, I don't see death as the enemy. It's an enemy for those of us left behind, but it's peace for those who must leave us. Of course we don't want them to leave too soon. My mom and dad both died too soon. My sister definitely died too soon. But we just don't get to choose, and we have to find a way to accept that without clinging to mythology just because it makes us feel better. And I don't mean by that Christianity. I mean the myth that anyone with a 13-year-old collie can "beat" cancer. You can make it go away, perhaps, depending on the type of cancer, but something is going to mow that dog down soon enough, and that something might not be so gentle and accommodating as cancer can be.

For example, our other dog is at least 11, has diabetes, is blind and arthritic. He spends most of his life sleeping. His quality of life? Hard to say, but I don't see how it can be great. If he needed heroic measures, we wouldn't take them. He deserves better than that. He will die, I will die, we all will die, and if imaging a Rainbow Bridge makes you feel better about your doggy leaving this world, then fine, just don't tell yourself you have to keep him from crossing that bridge. You can't. You can delay it. You can tease out a few more years, and maybe that's what you should do. But you can't beat death.

Sorry for my miserable ramblings. I miss Max terribly. But lamented as his passing is, and too soon in that he was a very vigorous, happy dog up until the last minute, his leaving us behind has made room for another dog who had a rough start to have a spoiled rotten life with us. We pick her up tomorrow. Her name is Buttercup, although we're probably going to change it. She spent her first 9 months chained in a yard, and now she's going to live on Easy Street with us. And none of this would be possible if nature hadn't taken its inescapable course.

The dog is dead. Long live the dog!

Max, b. 1/99, d. 8/4/09, of hemangiosarcoma