How do you say goodbye to a friend who never gave you one moment's
heartache or trouble for 14 years?
How do you say goodbye to that special one who always greeted you at the door with some "gift", no matter how small, whether it be a slip of paper that she found on the floor, a sock, a squeaky toy...always something in greeting.
Always a unique "Woo Woo Woo!!" and her little "welcome home"
rocking-back-and-forth funny dance.
How do you say goodbye to your first Golden, the puppy who came into your empty arms, feeling like a gift from heaven, when the doctor told you you'd never have another child?
How do you say goodbye to one of the few in your life that truly personified the meaning of unconditional LOVE?
This past Saturday night, while grooming my dogs, I made a horrifying discovery on my oldest Golden, Missy Sue.
Friday, Missy turned 14. She'd been slowing down recently and it seemed to us that it was accelerating. Still, we chalked it up to increasing stiffness in her hindquarters due to advancing arthritis.
Nothing in my imagination had prepared me for what I saw when I rolled my dog over.
A huge red, inflamed mammary tumor. And it was bleeding. How could this thing have appeared seemingly overnight? Her last bath was after Thanksgiving. There was nothing there then. In fact, she got a lot of belly rubbing attention on Christmas too, from other members of the family. Nothing was seen or felt then.
My poor Missy Sue. I broke down in tears. My 6 years as a veterinary clinic assistant/mgr. and Golden Retriever breeder told me this was the worst possible finding.
I cleaned her up as best I could and gave her an extra Rimadyl. And then I cried and cried....
How could this day be here so soon?
It seemed just a few short years ago, she was that rambunctious puppy who could uproot a miniature rosebush without breaking stride and run all the way across the yard with it, us chasing her and laughing the whole way.
Wasn't it just a few days ago that she adopted an orphaned 3 day old border collie mix puppy and nursed her, raising her like her own?
Was it really 5 years ago that she climbed into the whelping box with our other female Golden's litter and calmly began wet-nursing that brood of 9 puppies while their dam, Ginger Mae suffered with post-caesarian mastitis and then severe eclampsia?
Wasn't it just yesterday we showed her our new grandbaby and she took that first gentle warm lick and lost her big old heart to Aubrey Elizabeth Davis?
Oh, the memories that came flooding in....
All day Sunday we thought about it, talked about it. Missy could hardly get up! She went outside, and laid down in the wet grass, in the rain. She needed help getting back up. She refused dinner that night. Whatever it was, was ravaging her quickly. We decided that surgery and treatment were probably not an option, although we'd get the vet's best opinion on Monday.
Monday afternoon, my fears were confirmed. Not the best circumstances to meet a new veterinarian. It was a huge and obviously aggressive tumor. The prognosis, she told us, even with immediate surgery, was very dim. But if we wanted, she could run some tests and possibly suggest surgery.
It was tempting to take ahold of the tiny straw of hope she held out.
But I looked deeply into Missy's eyes. There I saw in the liquid brown
depths
a plea:
"And, my friend, when I am very old, and no longer enjoy good health, hearing and sight, do not make heroic efforts to keep me going. I am not having fun. Please see that my trusting life is
taken gently. I shall leave this earth knowing with the last breath I draw that my fate was always safest in your hands."
It was so tempting to give in to my understandable (but ultimately selfish) desire to keep my "Old Girlfriend" with us another year or even months longer. But I'd made a vow long ago to myself, while holding countless other pet owner's hands, handing out fresh tissues in those countless heart-rending moments at other clinics where I had worked:
"Dear Lord, when my time comes to make this decision, please give me the strength and the wisdom to know and to let go and do the right thing. The loving thing." I used to tell Dr. Beall, "You know I'm going to be a basket case when my turn to do this comes." He used to nod knowingly. He'd walked this road with his treasured Golden friend, "Harvest".
Perhaps he'll read this blog and he'll understand, though. Dr. Beall, I now know how it feels.
Missy Sue breathed her last in my arms, with my husband stroking her soft ears in just the way she loved, hearing us whisper how very much we loved her and always would.
Go to God, Mrs. Woo.
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