Years ago, while seated in the lobby of the vet’s office with our family dog, Winston, a woman quietly entered through the front door. She walked up to the reception desk and announced that she was there to pick up her cat. After a few minutes, a vet tech returned with a small cedar box containing the remains of her recently cremated cat. Without missing a beat, a young child turned to his mom and loudly asked, “Mom! How did they fit a big cat in such a small box?”

This is Odie’s box. Despite my hopes, wishes, and the best of medicine, he fits inside just fine.

On a Wednesday, Odie decided he wasn’t hungry anymore. By Saturday evening, his front legs dragged his limp back legs across the ground. And on Sunday night, being carried became his primary mode of transport.

Cancer is cruel.

The jingle and sight of his leash mustered up a tired sense of excitement and joy on Monday morning, as I carried Odie into the car for one last ride. He plopped on Liz’s lap, head resting on her arm as he alternated between sleep and watching the scenery go by.

We waited together in the lobby of the vet’s office for an eternity. Once on the exam table, Odie’s mood soured and his eyes became vacant. He knew.

After much discussion and reassurance, the vet administered a sedative to render him unconscious. Odie gradually melted into my arms as we recited our goodbyes. Shortly before he lost consciousness, he regained his signature happy dog smile and was calm. His heart quietly stopped only seconds after the final injection. Liz and I stroked his fur as he took his last breath.

I have never felt so empty in my life as I did in that moment.

Knowing for months that Odie’s time was short, both Liz and I began snapping pictures on a regular basis. I promised myself that when his time drew near, we would document his last adventures with us. Just a few weeks before Odie died, blogger and photographer Robyn Arouty published a post titled, “I Died Today – By Duke Roberts,” which photographically chronicled the last few hours of life from the perspective of Duke, a terminally-ill black Labrador. It instantly went viral on the internet. While my camera-phone skills don’t hold a candle to Robyn’s professional talent, this is how I imagine Odie would have remembered his last few months with us.

 

“Maybe if I sleep on your face, you’ll forget about the flu and I’ll forget about the cancer.”

“Put down the cookie, fat ass.”

“Let’s have a cookout with Kate and Andrew. New Jersey isn’t so bad!”

“Life doesn’t get better than a Saturday morning on the couch.”

“I love a lazy night on the hammock in Hockessin.”

“While Michael wasn’t looking, I snagged his sub.”

“Fresh sheets…soft pillow. I guess you can have the other side.”

“These vet trips are exhausting for you guys, too?”

“Look, I’ll take as many cancer pills as you want. Just keep the Skippy coming, man.”

“Time for burgers and fries at the US Hotel.”

“Photobomb!”

“I feel better. Let’s drive to the river.”

“Was swimming on my bucket list? You get in first. I’ll think about it.”

“I’m not hungry, but you guys need to eat. Let’s go to Greg’s!”

“So glad we hit the beer garden today.”

“I’m pretty tired, guys.”

“That nap was great. Let’s keep this party rolling.”

“Ok, time to go home. Thanks for the lift.”

“So I guess this is it, guys. Don’t worry about me…worry about yourselves.”

 

Over the years, I’ve heard plenty of stories of friends and family losing their beloved pets, described as the “worst day” of their lives. While I never doubted their sentiment, I certainly didn’t understand the gravity of their loss. I get it now.

Odie’s time with me was certainly not without its challenges, from health issues to behavioral problems. I sincerely want to thank family and friends who have been patient with him and supportive of me, and particularly want to acknowledge my family, Joe Couvillon, and the care and advice of vets Laura Fontana and Larry Rebbecchi. You each had a hand in improving Odie’s quality of life, all the way until the end. For that, a very humble thank you from Odie, Liz, and me. The cards, messages, and kind words have been much appreciated.

While it has only been a few weeks since the last walk, car ride, or couch snuggle, not a day has gone by where I don’t badly miss that ball of fur. I will walk in the front door, only to be greeted by disappointment, or the jingle of dog tags outside the window will cause my ears to perk up and heart to sink. And the kitchen floor has never been so dirty, as the daily crumb-scavenging service that Odie lived for has come to a close. Perhaps I’ll have to start eating at the table.

When I think back to our first meeting and test drive, Odie stopped in front of my car and laid down, refusing to walk any farther in the direction of his previous home. When I tried to drag him, he wouldn’t budge. But when I opened the car door, he hopped proudly into the front seat, for the first of many drives together.

Even now, I sometimes think I catch a glimpse of him in the mirror, smiling as he watched the world pass by.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I would make an awful cocaine addict. I’m non-committal, I’m barely scraping by on a student budget, and while the weight-loss would be nice, it would take a lot of coke to entertain the vast mucosa of my beak. Given that a few cups of coffee can launch me into a full-blown panic attack, stimulants are not my jam. As I leaned over my kitchen table this morning cutting a pile of white powder into equal lines with a razor blade, a summer gust of wind blew through the screen door and my beard and mustache were quickly dusted white. Odie gleefully wagged his tail and danced around in excitement, waiting impatiently for his daily hit, as I wiped the Piroxicam from my face.

Piroxicam is a human non-steroidal anti-inflammatory similar to ibuprofen and is given to dogs for a number of conditions. The human dose is too large for Odie’s weight, so I have to divide a capsule into multiple doses. In Odie’s case, his blight is terminal prostate cancer.

A few months ago, Odie presented with blood in his urine. Having a history of urinary tract infections, he was quickly treated with antibiotics and the symptoms resolved. But a few weeks later, he began to strain while watering my newly planted backyard. The vet found an enlarged prostate on manual exam, and much to both Odie’s and my own surprise, the vet handed me a latex glove and some lube and “showed” me his findings, as Odie and I took our relationship to a new level. Ultrasound confirmed calcification of the prostate, highly suggestive of cancer. Fortunately, further imaging showed no evidence of metastases anywhere in his body.

I’ve scoured journal articles on prostate cancer in dogs, consulted with a few vets, and even chatted with a veterinary oncologist. Treatment options are very limited, as radiation is ineffective and chemotherapy is unlikely to work. The end conclusion is the same: Odie’s clock is ticking, as most dogs live an average of three to six months after diagnosis. Given an early diagnosis, he could potentially make it another year.

I haven’t told Odie yet. In fact, I don’t think I have to tell him. Over the past few months, Odie has become much more cuddly and affectionate, less anxious, and better behaved. He goes on a lot more walks, joins us on outings to the park and snags burgers at picnics, and now sits proudly in the front seat on car rides. He lives for attention and spends every waking moment by our sides. He is more excited to see us walk through the door now than ever before. He knows something is up.

From the moment I met Odie, I had a gut feeling that he would be difficult. But I also knew I couldn’t leave him in an abusive home. When he rolled over to let me rub his belly, I knew he trusted me instantly. Along our journey, many people have criticized me for not euthanizing Odie or giving him to a shelter. Why waste my time and money on a problem? After all, “it’s just a dog.”

It is bittersweet that after years of unrest, behavior and aggression issues, abuse, a previous bout of cancer, infections, Lyme disease, and now a terminal illness, Odie has finally become what I’ve always hoped for: happy, less anxious, and content. I truly appreciate the support, both financial and emotional, from friends and family who have been champions for rehabilitating him to a better life.

Whether his time is measured in weeks or years, it is hard to dispute that Odie is enjoying the best moments of his life. My appreciation of him parallels my pride in him and at this point, his happiness is my own. In the meantime, we’ll keep doing lines of Piroxicam for breakfast and hope for the best. Odie may be just a dog. But he’s a damn good dog.

When I write, I sit down to an empty Microsoft Word document and wait. Occasionally I will have a topic brewing, but most of the time, I sit patiently until a few neurons fire and initiate digital movement across the keyboard. Many days, it is a quick process. But occasionally, those neurons find themselves slow to fire, perhaps a bit retarded from a night out on the town. The cursor blinks on.

“Jjkljnnn.” Sometimes, an idea slaps me in the face. Or paws the keyboard. Minus the punctuation, that hodgepodge of letters is courtesy of Odie, my Labrador-mutt mix who is equal shares adorable and deplorable.

I have loved dogs since I could first talk. When my mom was pregnant with my sister, I was often asked by cutesy grown-ups, “What do you want, Michael, a brother or a sister?” My response never wavered. “I want a dog!” (Sorry, Megan. You’re great, too!) After years of begging for a Golden Retriever, a parent-child compromise led to Winston, a supernatural Yorkshire Terrier who lived for almost two decades. While in college, I frequently visited the local animal shelter just to walk the strays around the yard.

In 2009, I moved to a house in need of furnishing and being on a budget, I took to Craigslist in search of end tables for my living room. Lo and behold, nestled between couches and ottomans, was a misplaced ad that merely read, “Free Dog.” The link led to a lovable picture of a mutt wearing a T-shirt and an oddly cheery “smile.”

Against better judgment, I set up a time to meet with Odie and his donors. Like a blind date gone wrong, Odie looked nothing like his picture. His body was shaved (a drunken act of his owner, I was told) with the exception of his mane and tail, his skin was peeling from a summer sunburn, and he was covered in wart-like growths, some as big as a half-dollar. When I asked for a leash to take him for a test drive, the woman looked at her husband and said, “Oh, honey, we don’t have a leash, right?” I had a piece of rope in the car, tied it to his collar, and took the 38-pound lion-leper for a stroll around the block. On our return, Odie stopped at my car and wouldn’t go any farther. At that moment, the donors came out with all of Odie’s belongings packed into a bag. Sad eyes, tail wagging, the little bastard sold me.

Odie and I stopped at Petco on the drive home, and while waiting for the cashier, a young girl pointed at Odie’s shaven and wart-laden body and yelled, “Oh my gosh, Mommy, that dog is so, SO ugly! What is wrong with him?” Suddenly, I was the parent of the “ugly kid.”

Over the next few months, Odie settled in to my routine. But then, as if he was afraid of losing his spot in my home, he became aggressive towards strangers literally overnight. Anyone who entered the house was a threat and Odie would attack if not restrained. Having guests became impossible and Odie even played his part in ending a relationship.

I tried obedience training, hired behavioral and aggression experts, and through the generosity of a coworker, even met with an animal communicator, which proved to be just as weird as it sounds. (Without knowing his background, the medium said that Odie had been beaten frequently and he kept asking, “Is this my forever home?”) And as if my “Free Dog” hadn’t cost enough already, he developed a large anal tumor that required invasive surgery. So my crazy, biting dog now had ass cancer. Does life get any better?

Despite pulling through the surgery, the overwhelming suggestion was that Odie should be euthanized because of his behavior. Even with the toll he had taken on every aspect of my life, I just couldn’t pull the trigger.

As a final effort, I decided that I wanted to try Odie on anti-depressants, as I was confident that his behavior was a result of anxiety. Despite a lack of willingness, I convinced my vet to prescribe Prozac. It didn’t appear to have much effect…until the prescription ran out. Oh my. Within days, Odie was hyper, anxious, and irritable. I put him back on the Prozac, increased his dose, and waited.

Gradually, when visitors came into the house, Odie seemed less fearful. He would initially act aggressively, but then would quickly warm up once he perceived no threat. When my friend, Marisa moved in with me, we suddenly had twice as many guests as before. With each new encounter, Odie became desensitized and began to remember faces.

Odie owes his life to Prozac. It reduced his anxious behavior enough to learn that not all encounters are threatening and allowed for repeat company to reinforce that fact. He is almost entirely rehabilitated from an abusive living situation that undoubtedly led to his aggression, and he seems happy, content, and is quite lovable.

His head on my hand as I type this, I can feel Odie’s rhythmic breathing against me as he snoozes. His hair has grown in, his warts have vanished, and he’s now two years cancer free. His loyalty to me is unrelenting and in some unspeakable way, he seems appreciative of his new life. I look forward to his enthusiastic greeting as soon as I walk through the door.

If you are frustrated with something or someone, I encourage you not to give up. The rewards can be numerous, even if the process takes years. And while Odie continues to nap, I’m going to finish this beer that’s wedged between the couch cushions, as I am still in the market for end tables.