The Servant's Quarters

"If you have a dog, you will most likely outlive it; to get a dog is to open yourself to profound joy and, prospectively, to equally profound sadness." - Marjorie Garber

It is with great sadness that I relate to you, Good Reader, the final chapter in the story of my beloved dog, Jenny.

Our dear adoptee had been with us for a few days, and we were enjoying her thoroughly. Olivia and I took her to the Specialty Pet Store in Plymouth for her collar, leash, and first chew toys. She had staked out her favorite places to lay in the house. I was enjoying having her sleep on the floor right beside me every night. When I'd come home from work, both the dogs would greet me enthusiastically, but it was Jenny who gave me the most joy. Too fat to move very much, she would bounce up and down on her front legs until I paid attention to her. She loved to give big sloppy kisses, and she was an awesome cuddler.

On the Tuesday after the adoption, I called home to see how everyone was doing. Rita answered the phone and before I could even ask about the dogs, she said, "I'm worried about our new girl."

She was very concerned about a growth under Jenny's chin was cancerous. Also, it seemed to her that some of the hairless spots under the dog's chin were active, red, and growing. We went back and forth on what we should do. Finally, we decided to take her back to the vet clinic at the Humane Society.

I took my lunch hour at the clinic so I could be there just in case the doctor had some really bad news for us, and we had to make a really bad decision.

The doctor examined Jenny, and all seemed well. The growth was almost surely not cancerous. The checked out the hair loss and decided that it was associated with some previous leash trama. I sighed with relief and thanked God. But Rita pressed the issue, pointing out the areas that seemed to be active and growing. The vet asked us to wait while he stepped out with Jenny and consult with two other doctors. When they returned, he told us that none of the doctors were sure what was wrong with Jenny. He didn't think it was contagious (so Walker and the children were safe), but he couldn't say so for sure. Without a definite diagnosis, he did the best he could. He sent us home with a round of antibiotics and some theraputic shampoo. The shelter volunteered to pay for the first batch of medication, and the shelter manager briefly met with us to discuss options. If we wanted, we could have our money back or exchange Jenny for another dog. No way were we giving up on our beloved doggie.

We immediately started gave Jenny a bath and started her on the meds. A couple of days went by. Things seemed to be improving. Jenny was getting downright frisky. She seemed to be dropping a few pounds. She was getting stronger. We were loving her more and more every day.

One evening, Rita decided to measure and chart the bald spots on Jenny's neck. I held her down, Rita measured, and Olivia charted the location and size of each patch. We were excited to see that the medicine seemed to be working. Several of the patches seems to be scabbing and healing. What a relief. This was going to work out.

The next day was Thursday, and I arrived home around 5:00 PM, ready for the long holiday weekend. I came through the front door, and in the living room, Liv and Rita had Jenny down on the ground. They were examining her neck.

Rita said, "The patches are worse. And there's one in particular that looks really angry."

I looked at the neck. Almost all of the patches were ringed by red, enflamed skin. The hair was falling out. We remeasured some of the patches, and there had been a very significant increase in their sizes across the board. The meds weren't working.

I said, "That's it. She's going back to the Humane Society tomorrow morning."

For the next several hours, we second guessed and debated that decision. Shouldn't we take Jenny to our vet for a second opinion? But what if this was contagious? We didn't even know what we were dealing with.

Ultimately, it was Rita who stated the bottom line.

"I don't care if Jenny's bald. I can live with a bald dog. But I can't live with the idea that this sickness could infect our healthy dog and our kids."

We had an old dog who had a sickness that the vets couldn't identify. It could be a symptom of a much more serious condition going on under the surface. We could spend hundreds of dollars fighting this and still lose the battle. Or Jenny might only live another year or so anyway.

We finally decided to stick with the decision to surrender her in the morning.

The kids were devastated. I was worse. This was MY DOG. I had found her. Rescued her. Adopted her. Nursed her.

I played with Jenny that night. She was more energetic than I had ever seen her. We played tug of war with one of her toys. At one point, she got so excited that she began chasing Walker around the room and barking at him. It was hilarious watching this fat dog toddling after the much larger Walker. I don't think Walker knew what to make of it.

The next morning, I dragged myself out of bed early after a very restless night. I wanted to spend as much time as I could with Jenny before it was time to go to the shelter. It was so sad. I laid on the floor with her. I told her what a great dog she was. I prayed for her. I couldn't believe this was happening to my Jenny.

Rita and I decided to surrender Jenny alone. The kids all said goodbye, and we went to the shelter in the late morning. We were both close to tears. Jenny was so good. So loving. She was our big bundle of affection. She deserved better. But there was nothing else we could do.

We had to wait in line at the Animal Surrender Office. While we waited, Rita filled out paperwork. I sat on the floor next to Jenny, petting her and talking to her. It seemed to take forever. It was torture.

Finally, it was our turn. Rita took the lead, talking to the Humane Society staffer. I stayed with Jenny like glue. I knew I was upset but I didn't realize how upset Rita was and how much I was affecting her.

She bent down and said to me, "You have to leave right now. Say goodbye. If you break down, so will I. And I need to do this. Go. Now."

I tried to argue, but she insisted. So, I put my arm around Jenny, hugged her, and said, "Jenny, you are a great dog. I love you so much." I kissed her on the head. She licked my face. And I left.

That was the last time I saw her.

We had decided to adopt another dog, so I headed to the Adoption Center to look at the available pooches. But I was clearly upset. My heart wasn't in it. None of these dogs was for me because none of them was Jenny.

GOD'S PROVIDENCE - EXAMPLE #1652: While I was wandering around the Adoption Center, I came across a couple of familiar faces. I thought I recognized a couple who were visiting with a small beagle in one of the "Get Acquainted Rooms." I walked by three times looking in at them before I got up my courage to knock.

"Excuse me, but aren't you the couple that was interested in adopting Popcorn last weekend? My family and I were the ones who did take her home."

They recognized me as soon as I mentioned the name that the shelter had given Jenny. I filled them in on the whole story, barely managing to keep it together. It was obvious to them how hurt I was, and they were very compassionate. They were very affirming and comforting. Rita joined us in a few minutes, and we both told them that as painful as the situation was, we were glad that we went through it instead of them. We wouldn't have wanted it to happen to them, and they seemed genuinely touched by that. We wished each other well and left.

Later in the day, we asked one of the staffers if "Popcorn" was going to be put down. She looked a bit tentative.

"Yes, I think that's what they're going to do. They may have already done it. But that's definitely what they're thinking."

So, my girl is gone now. It was a great journey, and she stole my heart. I have some wonderful memories, and I kept some momentos - her collar, her toys. We have pictures. And we have the love. She was a really special dog. Don't take my word for it. I am a sentimental sap. But we all miss her. The little boys talk about how we can adopt Jenny again after the doctors fix her up. (I tell them that Jenny's probably already living with a new family who loves her very much.)
Rita says she still misses her. Everyone shed some tears.

And that's how the story ends. But we do all live happily (for the most part) ever after. In my next entry, I'll tell you about the new member of our family whom we adopted on Friday afternoon. We're planning on her staying around for a very long time.

Goodbye, sweet Jenny. You were a great dog. The best.