Publisher’s Perspective: A Saturated Sadness

If you don’t want to read another missive about a man who loved his dog, I don’t blame you. You have my permission to turn to the next page. But most Watermark readers are devoted pet owners. I hope there will be something here for you.

I said goodbye to my brave, handsome, wonderful little buddy last week. Duncan was just ten not old for a Pembroke Welsh Corgi. But just before Thanksgiving he hopped up on my bed to wake me and his breath smelled funny, even alarming. I took him to see our vet, Dr. Jim Martin at Loch Haven Veterinary Hospital, expecting a quick fix.

Jim speculated that it may be an abscessed tooth or sinus infection, but under anesthesia he discovered that Duncan’s left upper gum was so rotted that the back teeth came out with a light tug. A few days later, biopsy results confirmed what Jim feared: a cancerous spindle cell tumor.

The diagnosis came as a shock because Duncan had always been a robustly healthy dog. We met when he and seven siblings were just eight weeks old; a sleeping pile of Corgi cuteness on their breeder’s kitchen floor. I stepped over a barrier and sat on the floor watching them. After a few minutes the one with big ears, four white paws and a beautiful white sweater woke up and sleepily crawled across the floor and into my lap. When his brothers and sisters roused, a serious and hilarious puppy growl warned them away.

I took him home with me, even though I had no idea what to do next. I’d never own a dog.
We got off to a rocky start because I didn’t know how to train him. In time I bought a guide book and learned that I was doing everything wrong. Within a week my smart little puppy was potty trained and had stopped chewing furniture.

I also resented working twice-daily walks into my always-running-late schedule. Duncan’s care forced me to slow down, to my great benefit. Our walks became my favorite part of the day; a chance to reflect, plan, or just check out as I watched my dog blissfully sniff every marker in the neighborhood.

Duncan was willful. He showed me his canine teeth regularly (which in time just made me laugh). But by six months we were a happy pair; me the master with a light touch, him the stubborn but enthusiastic companion.

For the next ten years he traveled with me to St. Pete, and often joined me at work. Neighbors, clients, and Watermark staff came to love him dearly.

And at every turn I was greeted with expectant, devoted eyes that followed me everywhere: always ready to play, always happy to wait. When I needed comfort I’d lie down next to him, nuzzle his neck and wait for our breathing to slow and then synch. That profound, loving connection is the closest thing to a spiritual experience I’ve known.

To determine treatment options for the cancer, I scheduled a CT scan at Bluepearl Veterinary Partners in Tampa with Dr. Jen Coyle, one of the few veterinary oncologists in the area. I dropped Duncan off, spent four hours at a nearby Starbucks trying not to think about him, and then returned for the results. As Jen led me to her office she warned, This is brutal.

The ghost-like CT scan, displayed in quarter-inch vertical sections, showed cancer beginning just past Duncan’s snout and continuing into his left nasal cavity, down to his mouth and up to his brain, breaking through the skull at some places. It was so pervasive I couldn’t believe my little soldier hadn’t shown any symptoms until two weeks prior.

Fighting tears, I asked about treatment. Jen, also tearing, shook her head sideways.

Radiation is the only thing that could work, but the tumor is too big and too close to his eye and his brain, she said. He’s a happy dog right now. Keep him that way and enjoy him for as long as you can.

During the long rush-hour drive home, Duncan was still sleepy from the anesthesia and put his head on the armrest between us. Looking down at him, still so handsome, it was hard to believe the cancer was so advanced.

A few weeks later I went to a late movie by myself, and as I left the theater I started sobbing. It was almost 2 a.m. I didn’t expect to encounter anyone, but a homeless guy tucked under a walkway lifted his head as I walked by. It was brutally cold, and I fetched him an old blanket from my car.

He thanked me and told me he’d seen me crying. I told him my dog had cancer and didn’t have long to live.

That’s too bad, he said gently. But you know what? Your dog doesn’t know that.

And in fact as the tumor grew, eventually blocking his vision and filling his mouth, Duncan never seemed to take notice. Mercifully, I stopped seeing the tumor, too.

It turns out we had five mostly wonderful months left together. Jim started Duncan on pain medicine. He was playful, ornery, and always my very good boy. But eventually the tumor grew and started to bleed, often uncontrollably. A round of chemo didn’t help. I covered the carpet with sheets and towels. Self-sufficient to the end, Duncan tried his best to keep himself clean with his tongue and front paws.

That last week Duncan stopped eating even the chopped chicken livers I made for him. He cut walks short, turning back home after a half-block. The twinkle left his eye.

My best friend, Ed, was Duncan’s second dad. We said goodbye to him on a beautiful Friday afternoon at Mead Gardens. Jim had agreed to meet us there, and when he wrapped him in a blanket and carried him away there was only the sound of the birds and the squirrels and the wind in the trees.

I miss Duncan terribly. It’s a saturated sadness, born of the richness of life. It’s a pain I can bear, grateful to have loved so purely and unselfishly.

I can even look forward to experiencing the whole cycle again, with another dog. Until that happens I continue to take walks, by myself, talking to my departed little buddy.