About 20 minutes into the pilot episode of his sitcom Louie, Louie C.K. says
And nothing good ends well. It’s like if you buy a puppy and bring it home to your family and you say, “Hey look, everyone, we’re all gonna cry soon. Look what I brought home. I brought home us crying in a few years. Countdown to sorrow with a puppy.”
That episode was first broadcast in late June of 2010, and I had been with my now-wife Courtney -- and her two dogs, Wyatt and Olive, who quickly became our two dogs -- for less than a year. And while I laughed at that bit, as I did quite often at Louie's material before his self-immolation, I remember looking at both those dogs and knowing that one day, I wouldn't be laughing so much.
Since those early days, I've grown an even stronger bond to those two dogs. I'm the person who spends the most time with them on a daily basis; I'm the walker and the feeder and the player, and while my wife does those things as well, she has a job that takes her away from them more than my job does. I'm around and they're around, so we're around together, and while I'd sometimes rather be alone to have the freedom to impulsively dash hither and yon, there are some benefits to having these two doggos around.
Wyatt is a male West Highland White Terrier, with a slightly darker stripe down his back that's only obvious when he's wet or freshly trimmed. He's a cuddler, happy to sleep with you or on you, so much of our down time is spent in the same physical place. Olive, on the other hand, is a female Scottish Terrier, and she's the more vocal and the more solitary of the two. She has a striking howl when there is food about, or interlopers outside, and while she's not what anyone would call a cuddling dog, she'll give you her version of affection from time to time. Later this summer, they will both be 13 years old, which is pretty old for those breeds.
A few months ago, we noticed that Olive was occasionally peeing out a few drops of blood, bright red pinpricks in the white snow. While we hoped that it was something as simple as a doggie UTI, a visit to the local vet's office -- and another vet, downstate, for confirmation -- has shown it to be bladder cancer, with a typical life expectancy of 6-7 months upon diagnosis. We might be able to prolong her life with some anti-inflammatory medication, but the cancer will ultimately do what cancers do, like the slow but inexorable dripping of water on stone. Our countdown to sorrow just got fast-tracked.
While plenty of people lose dogs to accidents before their time -- and have to find ways to cope in a society that isn't always built for such coping -- I still lived in a world of my own creation where Olive would always be there, looking at me from afar, checking to see if there was any food for her to scrounge from me. I've only been present for two deaths of what I would consider "my" dogs -- my first dog (Happy!) went to sleep in my sister's bedroom one Halloween morning and never woke up, and one of my dad's dogs (3D!) was visited at the house by a kind vet who gave him a lethal injection when his seizures became incapacitating -- and I was hoping that Olive might have an experience more like the former than the latter, but only time will tell. We don't want her to suffer, but we don't want to chase her off the stage before the final act is through.
Thankfully, Olive has responded well so far to the medication; as her breed also often suffers from arthritis, the meds have given her appetite and energy without the side effects, which has been a blessing. We went for over a week without seeing blood where urine should be, until last night's walk reminded me that the countdown is still ticking quietly in the background, and that our celebrations and joys should be tempered with a realistic vigilance. Until then, it's extra treats and extra play and cuddling until she can't take it, stomping off to her spot on the couch, oblivious to what lies ahead while we luxuriate in every stolen moment of laughter and love.
And nothing good ends well. It’s like if you buy a puppy and bring it home to your family and you say, “Hey look, everyone, we’re all gonna cry soon. Look what I brought home. I brought home us crying in a few years. Countdown to sorrow with a puppy.”
That episode was first broadcast in late June of 2010, and I had been with my now-wife Courtney -- and her two dogs, Wyatt and Olive, who quickly became our two dogs -- for less than a year. And while I laughed at that bit, as I did quite often at Louie's material before his self-immolation, I remember looking at both those dogs and knowing that one day, I wouldn't be laughing so much.
Since those early days, I've grown an even stronger bond to those two dogs. I'm the person who spends the most time with them on a daily basis; I'm the walker and the feeder and the player, and while my wife does those things as well, she has a job that takes her away from them more than my job does. I'm around and they're around, so we're around together, and while I'd sometimes rather be alone to have the freedom to impulsively dash hither and yon, there are some benefits to having these two doggos around.
Wyatt is a male West Highland White Terrier, with a slightly darker stripe down his back that's only obvious when he's wet or freshly trimmed. He's a cuddler, happy to sleep with you or on you, so much of our down time is spent in the same physical place. Olive, on the other hand, is a female Scottish Terrier, and she's the more vocal and the more solitary of the two. She has a striking howl when there is food about, or interlopers outside, and while she's not what anyone would call a cuddling dog, she'll give you her version of affection from time to time. Later this summer, they will both be 13 years old, which is pretty old for those breeds.
A few months ago, we noticed that Olive was occasionally peeing out a few drops of blood, bright red pinpricks in the white snow. While we hoped that it was something as simple as a doggie UTI, a visit to the local vet's office -- and another vet, downstate, for confirmation -- has shown it to be bladder cancer, with a typical life expectancy of 6-7 months upon diagnosis. We might be able to prolong her life with some anti-inflammatory medication, but the cancer will ultimately do what cancers do, like the slow but inexorable dripping of water on stone. Our countdown to sorrow just got fast-tracked.
While plenty of people lose dogs to accidents before their time -- and have to find ways to cope in a society that isn't always built for such coping -- I still lived in a world of my own creation where Olive would always be there, looking at me from afar, checking to see if there was any food for her to scrounge from me. I've only been present for two deaths of what I would consider "my" dogs -- my first dog (Happy!) went to sleep in my sister's bedroom one Halloween morning and never woke up, and one of my dad's dogs (3D!) was visited at the house by a kind vet who gave him a lethal injection when his seizures became incapacitating -- and I was hoping that Olive might have an experience more like the former than the latter, but only time will tell. We don't want her to suffer, but we don't want to chase her off the stage before the final act is through.
Thankfully, Olive has responded well so far to the medication; as her breed also often suffers from arthritis, the meds have given her appetite and energy without the side effects, which has been a blessing. We went for over a week without seeing blood where urine should be, until last night's walk reminded me that the countdown is still ticking quietly in the background, and that our celebrations and joys should be tempered with a realistic vigilance. Until then, it's extra treats and extra play and cuddling until she can't take it, stomping off to her spot on the couch, oblivious to what lies ahead while we luxuriate in every stolen moment of laughter and love.
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