Warning:
if reading about my desk or any of the other emotional topics I’ve ever
posted about have upset you or made you cry – turn back now. This is
your only warning.Every once in a while I will go to
ridiculous lengths to do something nice for someone I care about. Chris
wanted a dog. “But you have dogs, don’t you?” Why yes, yes we do.
The reality is that they are
my dogs, there’s really no mistaking
that. They sleep at my feet, follow me everywhere and I am quite
certain they exist secure in the knowledge that on some days I am the
only thing between them and a well-placed bullet (if you ask my
husband). So, daddy wanted a dog of his very own. One that would be
devoted to him and he could have by his side and not consider canine
homicide.
While at work one night we were perusing breeding
websites for Presa Canarios, the breed that he was really interested in.
Expensive and difficult to get we were just window shopping. After
all, we’re more of the “yank from the jaws of certain death” type. Most
of our wee beasties are from shelters or dumpsters. In a moment of
pure serendipity our friend Vashti happened by and looked over our
shoulder and said, “Oh you like Presas? My friend and I just bred a
pair.” We went to see them; there were two left, gangly creatures with
monstrous paws and velvet-covered bricks for heads. As exciting as it
was, we discussed it like grown-ups and came to the conclusion that even
at the reduced price she was kind enough to offer that it just wasn’t a
good idea. Or at least that’s what I let him think.
Within a
couple of weeks I had the covert operation all worked out. I brought
Heidi in on the plan, it was the first significant secret we got to
share and she worked hard not to slip around her father. Under cover of
a trip to Morristown on an errand I drove a bit further and picked up
this hulking chocolate brown puppy. Tucking her safely in the backseat I
promised her a good life and headed home, where the kids were waiting
to help me surprise Chris for our anniversary with a puppy of his very
own.
On the hour trip home, I suppose she named herself. Little
whines of trepidation turned into crying, the car ride did not agree
with her young constitution. A short time later the crying turned to
that grunting sound that equates to doggy retching. By the time I
crossed into the Delaware Water Gap she had managed to
fill James’s car-seat with partially digested Puppy Chow and she had earned her name – Banshee. For
bean sidhe, the wailing Irish spirits of legend.
He
was surprised. He fell for her big brown eyes and now had a dog of his
very own. The other dogs didn’t fall for her quite as quickly. In
fact within the first week they had lured her out into the woods and
left her there, presumably in the hopes that a bear or other unlucky
family would find her. We found her huddled under a tree, waiting for
daddy to come save her.
Presas are territorial creatures and
Banshee was no different. We were her family and this was her home and
intruders were treated with suspicion and adolescent hostility. It was
difficult for a time, trying to teach her who not to try and eat, but
she did eventually figure it out. Except for the UPS guy, up until the
end she still hated the UPS guy … She did not like being left alone,
even on the nicest days when you would think all a big brown dog would
like to do is lay in a sunbeam and enjoy the weather. Sure she liked
that just fine, so long as she could see her family.
She filled
out to an impressively muscled machine, yet never figured out just how
strong she really was. This was likely a blessing to the other dogs,
she was always bottom on the totem pole to them and even when she could
have beaten them soundly she did not. She was gentle with the children,
always – except maybe Owen who liked to roll around on the floor and
wrestle with her until she was dragging him around like a favorite chew
toy.
She hated the rain and the snow and would go on strike
about going out in inclement weather. She could hold it for hours and
hours and hours if it meant she wouldn’t have to put her butt in the
snow or stand in the rain. Despite her physique her favorite activity
was sleeping, she was an expert in four things – eating, drooling,
sleeping and guarding the perimeter as our whiskey-tango security
system. Oh and barking, always the barking. Even Meredith learned
“Banshee shut up!” as one of her first sentences.
Above all, she
was daddy’s dog. She could hear his truck before anyone else, she
listened to him above anyone else and when the day was done she would
curl up in a ball at his side and stay there until he awoke. She always
had to be touching him when she slept, it didn’t matter what you did –
even when you never saw her moved she would somehow scoot across the bed
so that she was touching your leg or back, sleeping soundly (and yes
snoring) with her velvet-covered brick of a head tucked in snugly at
your side.
A few short months ago she was outside and if you can
imagine this ... barking. All of a sudden she yelps with pain, as if
someone had just struck her. I was looking right at her when it
happened, there was nothing I could see that happened yet all of a
sudden she couldn’t put weight on her front paw. It got better for
awhile but then the joint blew up again. Chris took her to the vet; we
anticipated an injury or more likely Lyme’s disease. A few hours later
he calls me, incredulous. “How do you feel about osteosarcoma?”
Bone
cancer?!? She’s five years old! She’s in her prime! You’re kidding
me right? No, no they weren’t. Turns out it is more common than we
thought, especially in large dogs. It’s aggressive, it travels and the
options are heartbreaking. We could amputate the front leg, to the tune
of $2000 and maybe buy her a few more months. We could add chemo to
that, for a few more thousand and perhaps buy her more time but likely
not. In 90% of cases by the time you can see it on X ray it’s already
traveled and also to the lung. We were stunned and heartbroken.
Without treatment, two to four months at best. The best option was to
make her comfortable and ride it out as best we could.
Piece of advice? Don’t research canine bone cancer on the internet, it will devastate you. Google is not always your friend.
Ignorance
of course is bliss in its own fashion; she had no idea what was wrong.
She would just adjust and carry on. First on three legs, she still
found the energy to guard the front porch. Within a few weeks one of
her back legs began to fail. On two legs she became unsure and for a
time we thought that her perhaps the end was looming so much sooner than
we anticipated. Then one afternoon she climbed down off the couch,
steadied herself (fortunately the two working legs were on opposite
sides) and headed out the back door. Head up, tail wagging - it was
business as usual and she was Hoppy the wonder dog. She got up and down
the stairs and still curled up in her dogball at the foot of the bed.
It wasn’t to last though, the insidious disease was relentless and was
taking her abilities from her.
The children knew she was sick,
we do not lie to them. They would bundle her in blankets on the couch
and spend hours with her, just like she had always done with them.
Curled up on the couch, you could almost forget what was going on, as
they would assume their favorite positions with her and watch TV, idly
feeding her all the choice tidbits from their meals without fear of
reproach. As she grew weaker, they were all active in helping us with
her. Watching my son coax her into drinking small amounts of water or
broth or listening to Meredith tell her about her day would send me
scurrying for a private corner to cover my tears.
Finally both
back legs failed, though she would still try if you asked her. This
absolutely magnificent dog was reduced to being carried like a child;
she could no longer climb the stairs or share the bed. She could not
patrol her yard or even pull herself up to look out the bay window. But
if you asked her she’d pull herself up, she would try to obey and then
look at you in confusion as her withered limbs would not cooperate.
Most telling of all was that she could no longer bark. People could
come and go and at most she would give a strained cry to remind us that
this was against the rules, but she could no longer do her job.
Growing
up she was always putting her giant head on your lap, usually to try
and use her mental powers to get you to feed her. But she would be
content to just lay her huge head there so you could stroke that
incredibly soft fur. One morning as I was cleaning her with some warm
water, she pulled herself over to me and put her head in my lap. I
looked into those huge brown eyes and I had no answers for her. I knew
that her time with us was almost done.
Banshee lost her fight on a
dreary, rainy autumn night. My husband has lost one of his dearest
friends. Her chain still lays on the deck, half-hidden under piles of
dead leaves as it hasn’t moved in some weeks. The doghouse stands
abandoned; the other dogs never had any use for it, it looks like a sad
little hovel. The yard is silent. The other dogs bark of course but
that whining litany what would say, “Daddy let me in, I don’t want to be
by myself” is now over.
The children are old enough to
understand death now; they are trying to make sense of the loss. About
why we couldn’t do anything about it, why did it have to happen. Having
them focus on happier memories seems to help, pictures and stories and
above all – the fact that she isn’t in pain anymore, that that is a good
thing.
“Mom, I wish Banshee didn’t have to get cancer.”
Me too buddy, me too …
Rest in Peace Banshee
2004 – 2009
SEPARATE LIFETIMESWe who choose to surround ourselves
with lives even more temporary than our
own, live within a fragile circle;
easily and often breached.
Unable to accept its awful gaps,
we would still live no other way.
We cherish memory as the only
certain immortality, never fully
understanding the necessary plan....
--- Irving Townsend ---
"The Once Again Prince"
Owen and Banshee.
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