Precious moments with a best buddy
Near my feet as I write, our family golden retriever, Buddy, is on his side in deep sleep, his legs and paws wiggling, with occasional whimpers and mini barks, and I wonder where he is running in his dream world. A fresh 10-inch scar runs down the center of his abdomen.
Over the years, he has hiked thousands of miles, swum in lakes and rivers, camped and backpacked, fished and hunted and ridden in cars, trucks, a boat and an airplane. With my son, Kris, Buddy has lived the life of the outdoors, and like us, he’s always had something to look forward to.
Now we just want him to live another day.
This past week, after we had visited a series of vets with few answers, a small-town vet helped Buddy elude the final trip to that big bone in the sky.
As he convalesces as a shorttimer on this planet, his presence at my feet is a reminder that there is nothing like man’s best friend. There are some other lessons as well.
We got Buddy when he was 6 weeks old and weighed 7 pounds. From the start, he was a friendly rapscallion with a screw loose, which led him to develop some strange inclinations, like putting a paw on the heads of other dogs.
Ol’ Bud hiked with me everywhere, camped in wilderness. He knew that when I put my boots on, something good was ahead. On the trail, he wouldn’t leave my side on a hike and run off, ever. Even when he hit 10, vets were amazed at how strong his heart and lungs were and, at 90 pounds, by the rock-hard muscles in his chest and shoulders.
At parks, people liked him. On the trail, people we met would often say, “Hi, Buddy,” because he looked like a “buddy’ and would greet everyone with a smile. That morphed to Bud, the Budster, Budvig van Toven and Ol’ Bud.
Anybody who loves the outdoors knows how a dog can bring a trip to life. For those whose dogs are a part of the family, you’ve learned that when you love a dog, your heart stretches to make room for that love.
But when the dog is gone, your heart never goes back to its original size. That’s why the hole you feel in your chest hurts like nothing else in the world.
Seven weeks ago, we lost Pooch, Buddy’s best friend, a McNabb-cross mutt with a heart of gold, whom we rescued 13 years ago. The heart and mind were willing, the body not so much. It was devastating, but it was his time, and we did the right thing.
Then I noticed a few hard lumps on Buddy’s chest, so right off, I drove him to a top vet clinic and had him checked out. “No problem,” said the vet. “He’s in great shape.”
The next week, we heard him panting and took him to a different vet, also with excellent credentials. “He’s fine,” the vet said, “heart, lungs, great shape. Blood tests show thyroid a little low, but no cause for concern. Let’s check back in two months.”
The Budster and I then took three trips in four days, from parks in the foothills to the Sierra crest, hiked 15 miles, and as always, he reveled in every step. The next week, I returned from a dogless expedition, and noticed that Ol’ Bud seemed lethargic. We were off to a third vet for another opinion.
An ultrasound found a tumor on his spleen. The next day, he was in emergency surgery. The vet then found additional cancer spots on his liver and asked if we wanted him euthanized. The news felt like getting hit with a sledgehammer.
She sewed him up so we could treat him like a king and have time to say goodbye. It could be only a week, we were told.
Three nights later, it seemed the time had arrived. A trip to a 24-hour dog hospital emergency room, to our surprise, revealed nothing wrong, they said.
In a long shot, my wife, Stephani, drove Buddy hundreds of miles north to Mount Shasta. That is home for the best vets I’ve seen in my travels across California, a husbandwife team, Tom Sampson and Maureen Baker.
Sampson operated immediately. He found a massive abdominal infection and pneumonia, removed the spleen and tumor and took biopsies.
Because of the infection, Ol’ Bud was hour-to-hour for the first night, but he survived, maybe from being so strong from all the hikes. In four days, he was back in my arms, full of energy, happy, like he wanted to take on the Pacific Crest Trail. Now he’s sleeping at my feet, chasing his dreams. As the week ended, he’s been camped out on my hiking boots, waiting for the next trip.
The biopsies came back positive for hemangiosarcoma, but he’s on a new metronomic chemo regime that could extend his life. We’re hoping for six months, but regardless, like my dad said, “Every day is a gift.”
In the coming time, I am thankful I have the chance to treasure Buddy, shower him with affection, feed him bonus dinners in his new “cancer diet” — high protein, low carbs — and take short walks and the occasional drives.
I’ve learned something: Never save love for a rainy day. The chance you’re waiting for may never come again.