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Deciding Life or Death is a Loathsome Choice |
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Written by Gary Moffat
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With less than 12 hours to go, I just couldn’t do it to him.
My little buddy, Willy Gee, a nearly 12-year-old Springer spaniel, had an 11 a.m. appointment the next day with his veterinarian. I was assured that the waiting room would be empty when I brought Willy in, and that the procedure would be fast and painless. I was given options for handling his remains, and I was advised of the costs associated with the process. My plan was to write a check out in advance so that I could just get the hell out of there, knowing that my companion for more than a decade was lifeless on a cold, hard table in a cramped examination room.
The morning before, I awoke from a sound sleep at 2:30 a.m., with moonlight streaming into the room. Willy was peaceful at my feet, and I could clearly see a massive tumor on his side heave up and down with each breath he drew. My magnificent, supremely athletic Springer was slowing wasting away in front of me as the malicious growth sucked life and vitality from him. Each day it grew perceptibly ... I could actually feel the increase in bulk and size from one day to the next.
I tossed and turned until dawn because my head was filled with questions and doubt. Was this the right time? Was he in any pain? How could I possibly make such a life-and-death decision about a pet who had loved me—or at least appeared to —so unconditionally and so faithfully for so long?
On March 25, Willy had surgery to remove a different tumor in the same location. Like many older dogs, his body is dotted with small, fibrous growths ... harmless fatty tissue just under his coat. Then one day I felt a larger bump that within weeks grew to the size of a tennis ball.
My vet showed me the tumor he had removed in one large section; he said it peeled off cleanly and he was fairly certain he had gotten everything. A biopsy would determine if it was cancerous, but I declined this option because I had no intention of additional treatments such as chemotherapy. Cost wasn’t an issue, but Willy was nearing the end of expected longevity for his breed, and I saw limited value for him in attempting to defy the will of nature.
Willy’s recovery was a nightmare that took nearly two months. He healed slowly and was forced to wear a plastic cone around his neck to prevent him from licking his sutures. Within days of having the stitches removed, however, my knucklehead dog succeeded in reopening the incision thanks to his obsessive nature. Next time around, steel sutures were employed and a temporary drain was inserted—which Willy promptly proceeded to pull out in the back seat of my truck during the ride home.
Within a month after Willy—and our household—were back to normal, I felt a new bump in exactly the same location. Now, four months after his first surgery, this new tumor is the size of a Nerf football. Its voracity is stunning; this parasitic being seems to have a life and will of its own.
Willy was born on Nov. 11, 1996, and he came into my life when he was 11 weeks old. I picked him from the three remaining pups of a litter on a farm in the middle of Wisconsin. It was a time when my first marriage was ending after 25 years, and my best friend insisted that having a dog would make things better. On the ride home, my new charge threw up three times in my lap, making me immediately question my decision to take on what would be a substantial responsibility.
Most people who own a dog will tell you theirs is the best in the world. Actually my dog is. He’s beautiful, with a liver and white silky coat that must be brushed frequently during the winter months when I let it grow out. The downside is he sheds fiercely and his coat is a magnet for burrs and stickers. Cleaning him up after a walk in the woods can take a half hour.
Willy and I bonded right away when I took him to puppy training. He was smart, loved the other dogs and mastered all of the commands quickly. He could heel on a city street while off lead and he did all of the basics flawlessly—sit, stay, come—by both voice commands and hand signals. Yet I could never teach him any “tricks” like speaking or rolling over. Guess he’s no genius.
Turns out he wasn’t much of a bird dog either, though that was my reason for choosing a Springer. He flunked out of hunting school (he was sent home after a couple of weeks of failed training) and when I did take him into the field, he would break birds wantonly—usually pheasants—far out of shotgun range. He was more of a mouse dog than a bird dog ... he’d chase anything that moved or threw off a scent.
Where Willy truly excels is in putting a smile on my face. He has a cropped tail that wags uncontrollably whenever he is excited, which is most of the time. He is delighted when I come home; delirious when I say the word “car,” and he knows we are headed some place.
Back in the day, he had powerful thighs that lifted him off the ground effortlessly whenever I threw an object for him to chase. He loved to run and would fetch until his heart burst.
And that’s what I felt the night before his date with the destiny I had imposed ... as though my heart would surely burst. I have a very special friend who suggested I visit her vet for some additional insight, and we did.
The vet examined Willy and confirmed the diagnosis I had been given, but she assured me that letting him continue to enjoy life was the right thing to do. She said I would know for sure when it was “time.”
Willy doesn’t run much nowadays, though I sense he thinks about it. Mostly he just sleeps; when he’s awake, he follows me everywhere.
For now, I try not to think about the inevitable. I’m taking it one day at a time and appreciating what I’ve had with Willy and relishing what remains.
Gary Moffat is a journalist and owner of Carpe Vino in Old Town Auburn. He can be reached at
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