I knew last year that one of my family dogs, Sparkle, had cancer when I wrote her a blog post that celebrated her 12th year with us. As a family, we kept Sparkle’s pancreatic cancer diagnosis and prognosis – two to six weeks to live - to ourselves. Incredibly, she raced past that maximum of six weeks and gave us almost a full year of extra time.
She slowed her roll a little, and while she occasionally had a pancreatitis attack, she was mostly the exact same dog she always was: happy to see me, giving me nose kisses, and wanting me to hold her when the room was too crowded or too noisy.
Last year for her birthday, which is today, the 28th, I parodied a Walt Whitman ode in her honor, but this year is her first birthday away. I try to imagine the vibrant party in doggie heaven. There’s probably treats, cheese, and peanut butter everywhere, and plenty of miniature toys and tiny tennis balls to play with. I like to think she was warmly greeted by another family dog, Snowy, whom she knew as a puppy, a few of our other family dogs, and her buddy, Tony, who passed away a few years ago, also from cancer.
Cancer. The diagnosis feels unreal still when it comes to someone, or something, you love very dearly. I thought I had prepared myself after I got the news, but looking back I just pushed myself into denial. Collecting photos and pre-writing an obituary (one that I can’t even look at now) was not acceptance at all. It was a little dance to convince myself I was ok with what would come when I was not.
I was fortunate to see her the night before she died, playing at my house with my pets and her sister, Zoe. She seemed like herself. The next day, when I arrived at the vet hospital, she was not. She was disoriented and couldn’t tell I was there… or at least, she couldn’t acknowledge me like she usually does. There were no nose kisses and it was as if she didn’t realize I was holding her. She responded the same way to my parents. Almost as if she was panting into a void.
The pancreatitis attack was so severe, it was truly the worst I had ever seen my Sparkle. Her struggle was evident. We could not be selfish and force our dog to limp through a pain that would only come back worse if – yes, if, the vet said – she recovered from this attack.
As any loving pet owner does, I labored over what had happened. For example, there were little things I didn’t fully notice. The best example is how she quickly accepted the dog stroller my parents used. She loved to ride in that thing! What we did not know was that she was gradually losing muscle mass, which made it a little difficult for our formerly athletic pup to do what she normally would do. And I couldn’t even tell. I feel guilty about those things.
Sparkle’s death unfortunately makes me think about my cat and my dog and the inevitable endings for them as well. Cairo, my cat, is eight years old and labeled a “senior” by the charts on the bottom of cat food bags. Smidge, my chihuahua, was rescued and is of an unknown age. She was spayed too late, after at least one round of puppies, and is at a higher risk for mammary cancer. Cairo’s seniority combined with Smidge’s unknown age, likely cancer risk and the white hairs popping up around her muzzle, I know my time with them is precious, and passing by.
My time with Sparkle was dazzling and special and I wouldn’t trade it for anything. It will take time to heal from this soft, furry loss. But if there is one take away, it’s that she taught me how to love so much more, she taught me to be a better pet owner, and she showed me just how worth it this human pain can be. We had Sparkle for her whole life, and we gave her the best damn life we could. You can sure bet I will keep doing my best to give Cairo, Smidge, and any other pets I have so much more, partially because of what I learned with Sparkle as my teacher.
Happy first birthday away, Sparkle. Love and miss you, always.
