When half is gone

We lost Riley, our Golden Retriever, early Thursday morning last week, just shy of 1 a.m.

Which isn’t quite true.  We made the decision to put her down.  So “lost” suggests we had no control.  We did … though it was the right thing to do.

On Wednesday morning and afternoon, Riley was just fine.  But come suppertime, she wasn’t herself.  She grew lethargic, panting, eyes wide, clearly out of sorts.

By 10:30 p.m., we knew this was not our Riley, that something unforeseen had grabbed her and was hurting her.  She knew it.  We knew it.

We hurried her to the car; she jumped in.  Her sidekick of a decade, our terrier mix Linus, jumped in beside her.  Normally a car trip was an exciting and fun time for these two.  But not this time, not for us or them.  Riley panted; Linus seemed subdued.

To lose a dog that is, like most dogs, an absolutely unselfish friend, is a very hard thing.  Ask a dog lover of their losses through the years and they’ll share their pain.

I’ve often wondered why we sometimes grieve more for dogs lost than relatives lost.  Dog lovers know a variety of reasons.  Dogs:

-       Are totally forgiving of humans and their foibles.

-       Wake each day with the enthusiasm of a toddler.

-       Have simple needs: a good bed, an occasional biscuit, some active play and love from an owner.

-       Have relatively few years with us.  We lose our dogs after 10 years or so. Imagine  losing a child after 10 years … how hard that would be.  Sure, dogs are not humans, and we weigh the value of each life-force differently.  But still, they’re here, then gone so soon.  Every day is precious.

***

“Come on, girl.  Let’s go inside.”

We arrived at the vet hospital and guided Riley in to the lobby.  She was panting, but her tail wagged.  I’m sure the smells flooded her senses … all of the dogs and cats that had poured through the lobby in the last 24 hours were there for her to sample.

Plus the smell of antiseptic … of vets and medicine and human science.

The staff quizzed us and quickly took Riley back by herself.  Within minutes, the vet came out and asked us about symptoms and timing. 

She immediately ventured a guess at the problem.

"Hemangiosarcoma."

Basically Riley had a tumor, very likely cancerous, on her spleen – common for older Goldens – and it had ruptured.

"This is an emergency situation," the vet said. Some quick tests – an X-ray and a needle in her abdomen – confirmed her suspicion.

The implication was clear – we had a few short minutes to decide her fate.

The choices were limited:  Riley was in pain, and to do little to nothing would result in her death from bleeding by sunrise.  To stabilize her for surgery in the morning to remove the cancer and spleen would mean a likely $5,000 bill.  Plus the prognosis was not good: She might live another six months – and that’s with chemo with all of its side effects.

In fact, the choices were stark:  To submit Riley to painful surgery and recovery, and a chemical cocktail that might let her suffer but live another few months, or to let her go now.

It was an unfathomable decision. The kids were far away, in school. How could we get them here soon to say goodbye?  We couldn’t, Cindy and I decided. And in the end, the conclusion seemed evident.

“We’re going to put her down,” I told the vet, the tears starting.

***

We waited forever in the examining room, it seemed, for them to bring Riley in.  They needed to stabilize her from the abdominal test, plus insert a catheter in her front leg.

We’d signed all of the necessary papers, and they carried in a large, square pillow for the floor.

Riley was brought in.  Her tail wagged, her energy fairly high … and that seemed the disconnect.  With prior dogs, they seemed on their last legs.  But Riley was still being most of Riley.  Excited, happy to see us. Except for the panting.  She clearly was not herself in that regard.  Something huge was amiss.

Through tears, we petted her, talked to her, tried to sound positive, to put her at ease.   “Good dog, Riley.  We love you.” 

And the vet came in with two syringes … a sedative, and the drug that would make her heart eventually stop.

We coaxed Riley to the large pillow, and she settled in.  Sitting beside her, we comforted her and stroked her.  “Good girl, Ri … we’re here, Ri.”

And the vet did her duty. 

Riley shuddered, then quieted, and was gone.

“She’s gone,” said the vet.

The vet gave both of us a hug.

“Stay as long as you’d like,” she said.

We didn’t stay long.  We said our goodbyes; I leaned down, kissed Riley’s head and breathed in the smell of her for the last time, and we stood up to leave.  I glanced back … a final look.  “Good dog,” I whispered. And I closed the door.

***

How do you sum up a friend of 10 years?  I know each member of our family has his or her own favorite memories of Riley.  They can become very personal.  I’ve written of Riley here often, so for me there are many. 

Some of the best occurred at our beloved cottage in Michigan, where Riley seemed most alert and aware of her role in nature. (See "To Be A Dog.") 

But my favorite? 

Most nights I’d get home from work tired, ready to relax. And Riley and Linus would await at the top of the stairs.  Riley would always have a stuffed toy in her mouth, and she’d cry a joyful cry reserved for all of us when we’d been too long away.

But the three of us had a post-work routine: I’d run to our bedroom at the east end of the house to change clothes, and Riley would chase me and catch me just as I reached the bed.  She’d jump up to play, just as Linus entered the room.

Then the two of them would wrestle while I’d change.

But then the fun would really begin.

“Okay, guys … ready, set, go!”

With that, Riley would run out of the bedroom, make a sharp right into the hall, then slide around the hall corner with Linus in chase.

Then at full gallop they’d make a beeline straight down the hall, down six stairs, through the kitchen – cooks beware! – and to the fireplace room at the house’s west end … by this time, Riley just inches ahead of Linus.

Riley, now at 60 miles an hour, knowing that Linus was aiming to bite her tail or back legs, would plop her butt down just as she left the kitchen – both to protect her rear but also to put on the brakes.

Linus would pounce, and they’d wrestle again, though both would quickly look up to see if I was following and had seen their display.  Each time I did, rushing around the corner just as Riley went into her slide.  And each time I did, I felt an incredible joy because of their innocence and love of life.

“I wish the world could see this,” I’d think.

***

I try to duplicate that fun now with Linus.  He still will chase me back to the bedroom. And he and I will wrestle on the floor.  And I’ll say, “Ready, set, go!”  And off he runs.  But it’s not the same. I chase him, and he seems unsure of what to do.  He gets to the bottom of the stairs and stops, tail wagging, looking up at me expectantly.

No, it’s not the same.  Half is gone.

Linus is our worry now.  He knows there’s a void.  He’s lost his wingman, his sister, his partner of a decade.  They were inseparable.  Oh, he’s eating.  He still barks at passing dogs, and goes ballistic when White Cat sneaks by.  But he’s more quiet than usual, and seems to sigh on occasion – something I’d never noticed before.

The one place he seems himself is when we take our walks through Briarwood, a nearby elementary school – Zach went there.  It boasts a small but beautiful field and a tree-covered creek encircling it.

Off leash, the two dogs would run together, though sometimes apart.  It was their time of complete freedom.

The first time that Linus and I returned to Briarwood, without Riley, the tears flowed again.  But it’s gotten easier … each day, it seems.

And we’ve resolved that we shouldn’t wait long for a new dog.  For Linus’s sake as much as for ours.  And so we begin the hunt.

***

My sister, Mary Ann, sent us words of comfort upon our loss.  And she also sent a passage from writer Dean Koontz.  I don’t read much of Koontz, though I should.  I know he’s good.  And I don’t usually quote at length from other writers here.

But on this point, Koontz rings true.  It’s from his book, “The Darkest Evening of the Year.”

“Dogs’ lives are short, too short, but you know that going in.  You know the pain is coming, you’re going to lose a dog, and there’s going to be great anguish, so you live fully in the moment with her, never fail to share her joy or delight in her innocence, because you can’t support the illusion that a dog can be your lifelong companion.  There’s such beauty in the hard honesty of that, in accepting and giving love while always aware it comes with an unbearable price.”

We did, and it has.

Good dog, Riley.  Such a good dog.

Why we climb

"Somewhere between the bottom of the climb and the summit is the answer to the mystery of why we climb." 
– Greg Child  

BELLINGHAM, Wash. – It started innocently enough.  I was visiting Meghan and Eric in Bellingham, and I was eager to do some hiking.

After all, life in the Northwest is not complete without an occasional hike.  And for good reason. The views are spectacular, the nature all around.  It sustains the soul.

The march up.

The plan was, on Day 2 of my visit, that we’d hike up to Oyster Dome, a rock outcropping overlooking the oyster beds of Samish Bay.  Meghan described it as a medium-level hike … something I’d be able to accomplish, I thought. I try to keep in shape even with my job, which binds me to a computer managing staff missives, phone calls, spreadsheets and frequent emails from honest foreigners who just found thousands of unclaimed dollars and want to share.

And Oyster Dome?  Well, it sounded darn good – very Northwestern.  Not that I’m a fan of oysters.  I don’t think.  But fresh, inviting, invigorating … a challenge.

So that morning, I woke up early at the hotel and drove a quick mile to the McDonald’s. Sure, I’m in the healthy Northwest, but not being a vegetarian I figured a sausage biscuit would carry me through the morning.  And hotel food was too expensive anyway.

Well fortified, I was ready. Meghan and Eric picked me up, and we headed south through Fairhaven and on to Chuckanut Drive.

California may have its Highway 1 and Colorado its Fall River Road, but Washington State has its Chuckanut.  And “Drive” does it a disservice.

Early postcard of Chuckanut Drive.

It’s a fabulous two-lane highway that’s actually State Route 11.  It was born in 1895, and it skirts between the Chuckanut Mountains on the east and Bellingham and Samish bays on the west.  The route is narrow; like Highway 1, the driver must heed the road vs. the scenery or risk becoming part of the scenery. But the views are spectacular.

Our destination was a middling point along Chuckanut … a part of the road that crosses the Pacific Northwest Trail.

Low clouds along the trail.

If the trail sounds grand, it is, stretching more than 1,100 miles from the Pacific Ocean inland to the Continental Divide.  Or more specifically, from Cape Alava on the coast, just south of the U.S.-Canadian border, to Glacier National Park in the Rocky Mountains.

Our job seemed simple … to hike a mere 3-plus miles up the trail to the Dome – considered the “pearl” of the Chuckanut Mountains – to view the San Juan Islands to the west. Meghan had packed some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches; we figured we’d arrive there by lunchtime, break those out, and we'd eat them while admiring the view.

And so we began.

Now, the logical person knows that a trail starting at sea level but quickly reaching mountaintops must, out of necessity, go up.

And certainly any hiker knows “up.”

But I’m more acquainted with the Midwestern “up,” which contrasts sharply with the Northwestern “up.”

Up at home is climbing the Flint Hills in Kansas, which barely rise above their own tall grass. I’ve climbed taller ladders.

Here, “up” is … well … why elevators were built.

Not that I wasn’t up for it.  I was, and we quickly marched skyward with Eric in the lead.

I won’t spend words describing the lush, green landscape; I’ve done that previously.  Just know that it is lush and green. Your envy meter would be off the charts if you saw how green.

A rare level spot.

Instead, I’ll mention four things:

-       The genius of the switchback.  I’m betting that early man, born with not much of a brain, thought the best way up a steep hill was straight up. The ol’ beeline. But at some point someone smarter invented the first switchback … the zig-zag trail style that allows you to climb mountains at reasonable grades.  Switchbacks require patience, of course. But that’s a virtue, so it’s all good.

-       The mountain goats among us.  By about my 10^th switchback, I was feeling the sweat and huffing and puffing a bit, too.  My guides, Eric and Meghan, seemed nonchalant and unaffected. Oh, I kept up, pretty much.  But I marveled not just at the two of them but at the number of trail runners who would zip by us at full gallop, deftly dodging rocks and roots while hardly breathing. “Inhuman,” I mumbled. But very polite.

-       Trail dogs … of all sizes. Then there’s the other class of hiker … the dog. I love dogs, so I appreciated the entertainment. But don’t assume hikers who bring their dogs take a page from an L.L. Bean catalog. Sure, there were Labradors and Goldens. But also pugs, poodles and a least one small-fry Chihuahua. That Taco Bell guy hopped down the trail like Pooh’s Tigger with a belly full of jumping beans.

-       Oh God, quad!  There is a muscle group that sits just above your knees called the quadriceps. Typically they aren’t tested much, although I use the gym to try to keep mine ready and able for most situations. Ha. After two hours of “up” we at last reached the Dome, and my quads burned hotter than the devil’s underwear. I was afraid they’d melt … lock into place once we plopped down on the Dome, and Meghan and Eric would have to roll me down the trail, rocks, roots and all.  It didn’t happen, though.  I credit the jelly in the peanut butter sandwich.  

So Greg Child, the Australian born mountaineer, suggests there’s some epiphany that hits between the bottom of the climb and the summit explaining why we do the darn thing.

At last we make it.

He’s right.  About halfway up, when I wondered what I’d gotten myself in to, the sweat flowing, the quads quaking, the lungs like a squeeze box playing ol’ timey tunes, it hit me.  This is why we climb … why we test our mettle, endure the pain, shed 5 gallons of water in just two hours.  It’s just so obvious.

It’s because at some point, at some time, just around that one final bend, we’ll finally reach it, our reason for being, the pinnacle of purpose ….

Lunch.

Just kidding, although the sandwich made me smile.

No, I think you do it because you realize how precious is that ability to climb steep hills, to finally reach summits and cliffs and a visual splendor that so many of us won’t, or can’t, ever see. We know our time on Earth is limited.  You do this while you can.

It was an exquisite moment, and now, looking back, I wonder if I gave it enough focus and attention.  

Because we saw clouds … not above us but below, at our feet, a soft, cottony blanket wrapping the San Juans, and Samish Bay below them. We were like angels.  Hardly innocent, but imagining what it must be like for those with halos to step so lightly.

Indeed, this is where angels come to dance.

With that, we began our descent.  And me?  Self-satisfied and newly confident, I welcomed those coming up-trail with greetings and encouragement.

To see pictures from the trip up, plus a side hike to Lilly Lake, click here!