Dexter

This is Dexter. He was my first truly beloved fur child. I had two cats and another dog before I got Dexter, and I loved them, but somehow it was different with Dexter. He was like my soul mate. He was my best friend, bar none, and I lost him nearly a year ago. He was such a great dog.

This is his fetch face. "Throw the ball, throw the ball, I know you're going to throw the ball." Playing fetch, chewing on bones, and being loved were his favorite things in life. Well, he also loved to eat, but he had a terribly sensitive stomach, so I couldn't overly indulge him with food or treats. He wasn't overly hyper as some boxers can be (he was a boxer mix). He loved to fetch, and he didn't care whether it was small fetch inside with his rubber ball or big fetch with a fetch-it at the dog park.

He had the most expressive eyes; I felt like he could see inside my soul with those big brown eyes. And he was really well behaved. At the dog park, when it was time to go, most of the time he would just follow me without being called, but if I did have to call him, he came right away. Even when he was sick or injured, he would put on a brave face and let you do anything to him. One time, we went to a gravelly dog park and he cut the pads of three of his feet. I had to clean, dress, and bandage three terribly cut feet, and he didn't mind at all. He had his mopey face on that said, "I don't feel good," but he never even flinched. Even going to the vet was fine with him; as long as everybody loved on him before and after, he would even allow his temperature to be taken without being held, just that same dopey look: "Well, this doesn't feel good, but for a scratch behind the ear when we're done, I'll do whatever you say."

Man I loved him.

Around Memorial Day last year, he started peeing in the house from time to time, which was highly unusual. That's when I realized how frequently I had been filling his water dish. A day or two later, I noticed lumps under his neck. In the couple days I had to work before I had a day off to take him to the vet, the lumps grew. As far as I could tell by trying to do some research online, it looked like Dexter had diabetes. That would have been inconvenient, but we would have managed ok. The truth turned out to be far worse than diabetes.

When the vet felt his lumps, which turned out to be his lymph nodes, a cloud slid across her face. That was not a good face. She said it could be any number of things, but she wanted to run some blood tests and she would call me tomorrow.

Tomorrow, which was a Friday, was one of the longest days of my life. I had to work, and I was checking my phone incessantly to check for missed calls. I called two or three times to see if she had gotten the results yet, and I was always told the vet would call me later.

5 o'clock, time to go home. No call yet.

6 o'clock, home after a very long rush hour commute. I called and got the voicemail of the vet. They were closed. I was panicked. Why hadn't she called yet? Was I going to have to spend another sleepless night wondering what was wrong with my best friend?

7 o'clock. The phone call.

"Hi, it's Dr X at Y animal clinic. I looked at Dexter's blood work, and blah blah blah lymphoma. Life expectancy is about two months. Blah blah blah chemo can give you 6-12 months. Steroids alone give you about two months, no steroids two weeks max. Blah blah blah. I'm so sorry. I'd like to do another test on Monday and we can talk more about it in my office. Blah blah blah take care and I'll see you Monday."

!!!

My beloved friend, not quite five years old yet, only had a matter of weeks left to live.

I sat on the floor, held him tight, and sobbed hyterically for an hour straight. He was so sweet, he never moved a muscle, just sat there stoically.

Finally I had cried enough to speak a little. I called my mom and somehow choked out: "Dexter...lymphoma...two months...dead!" She drove across town and held me while I cried some more.

The next month and a half was a string of highs and lows. I took as many pictures and videos of him as I could. I played fetch as much as he could tolerate - sadly, toward the end, that wasn't for more than a few minutes at a time. That's when I knew the time had come. I enjoyed every last minute and spent more time focusing on him and less time focusing on the tv. While it was incredibly difficult to know that our time together was coming to an end sooner than I would like, I am glad I knew and had time to love him extra hard before I lost him. As incredibly difficult as it was to lose him to cancer, it would have been just as hard or harder to have lost him suddenly, like from a car accident.

On the 4th of July, he told me he was ready to go, but I wasn't ready to listen to him yet. I can't put into words how he told me; I'm not exactly a psychic, but somehow I knew in his heart he was telling me he was ready.

Two days later, I had him with me at work. I had this gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach that he was telling me that it was time to let him go. I talked to my coworkers and my boss, who was a vet tech before building a business. They all said, "No, he seems fine, I don't think he's ready yet." In the end, I listened to my heart. He couldn't fetch for longer than a few minutes at a time, and he had incredible sadness in his eyes. He wasn't enjoying his favorite thing in the world any more, and suddenly there were no doubts in my mind what he was trying to tell me.

So I called and made an appointment for 7 the next evening.

We didn't make it to that appointment.

His labored breathing woke me at 5 am. I'm a pretty sound sleeper, so you can imagine how loudly he was breathing to have woken me up. I didn't want to take him to a strange vet, so I waited to call our regular vet to see if they could fit him in sooner. After sitting on the floor with him for over an hour, I called my mom to see if I could come over to her place while I waited for the vet to open. Also, I knew I would not be in any shape to drive home after the appointment, so my mom had already agreed to drive us to the appointment.

When we got to the vet, they set up one of the rooms with a blanket on the floor so I could sit with him in his final moments. The vet listened to his breathing, checked a few other vitals and said, "Yeah, it's time for him to go." All I could do was nod; the tears were coming already.

So I sat on the floor with his head in my lap. I think he knew what was coming. Actually, I believe the reason he woke up with breathing problems was so that I would never doubt my decision that it was time. He was always selfless like that.

The vet injected a pink liquid into his leg, and his breathing slowed down. Slower and slower, calmer and calmer...until...

He was gone.

I cried and cried and sat on the floor holding him until he got cold. Eventually, my legs were completely numb, and I had to stand up. I tried to move his head gently, but it thunked on the hard tile floor.

I spent that night at my mom's house because I couldn't bear the thought of going home to an empty house.

It didn't take more than a couple weeks for me to get another dog, because my life was far too empty without one. And I love Hailey and Dillin, don't get me wrong, but...

I would trade them in two seconds to get a few more years with Dexter.

I know he's in a better place, over the rainbow bridge, where he can fetch all day, and he never gets hot or tired, and he has an endless supply of cow hooves. But I still miss him like crazy. He was already two when I adopted him and just five when I lost him. I still feel angry sometimes, I feel like I got screwed out of at least five years with him, but I take consolation in the thought that he will be waiting for me after I die. Until then...

Miss you and love you forever, Dexter.