Sadie: She’s better than the rest

By: 
Leslie Silverman

My best friend has cancer. Both my human best friend and my four-legged one. Both are incurable. I can’t yet write about Missy, who I have known since I was 3. And I need to write about Sadie dog, as her time is mere moments.

For those of you who have ever had a dog, you know how hard it is to lose one. It’s one of life’s most “unfair” paradoxes that humans live for decades and dogs for but one or so. Sadie is far too young for her breed. Twelve. Average age for a border collie. Except she is like no other mere border collie alive. In fact, the day before the vet saw an “alarming” large mass that was intertwined amongst various parts of her insides on the x-ray, she was hiking up Harney for the fourth time in three months. This time we began at Big Pine, walking at least eight miles round trip.

She’s likely had the cancer growing inside of her since at least September. And I’d guess she’s hiked easily over 100 miles since then.

My only clue that she has this dreaded disease is that she began to vomit and defecate in the house. I assumed she had irritable bowel and when the vet mentioned cancer in September I scoffed. But the x-ray doesn’t lie.

I don’t know how to say goodbye to this girl. She is the love of my life. Anyone who knows me knows she goes everywhere with me. I mean everywhere. We are shadows of one another.

I can’t be in a separate room from her without her finding me.

It wasn’t always like this. When I first adopted her she spent six months sitting by a sliding glass door by my entryway. One day she plopped down next to me in the living room chair. I was shocked. I don’t know what made her decide that was the day she was going to begin to trust me, but it was then that we began to get close. And now...she knows my darkest secrets. She sees my moods and loves me anyway. She licks me when I cry, “paws” me when I’m scared and gives me “a head” when I’m just not quite myself. I talk to her and for her. “Mom I’m dry,” I joke when her water dish is empty.

And now I’m facing an empty water dish, an empty house and empty life. And if you aren’t a dog owner you may think I’m being melodramatic, but if you are then you know how much my heart is breaking at this moment.

I feel guilty. Did I pet her enough? There were days I don’t even think I touched her. How could I have been so callous?

I feel anger. Why can’t she just live a few years longer? She still wants to play ball and jump into the car. How could it possibly be her time?

I feel sadness. That word is not nearly the word I feel. Incomplete. Alone. Pointless.

I feel helpless. How do I know when it’s time? I want every last second, so I feel selfish, but I want her to not be in pain so I’m balancing empathy.

Once I learned the news I got her ready for a quick trip. We drove to Yellowstone. Just to frolic in the snow. For many years I had dreamt of a few days of snowshoeing with her there. We had never made the trip. And now, with moments left, when most people would be cuddled up with their bestie I drove us to the closest park entry. And we ran. We found bison tracks and ran. For a few minutes. She wagged her tail. And I smiled.

And then we came back. And I am about to defrost the ground to dig her grave. And wait. She knows the sign...when I toss the ball and she doesn’t fetch it. “Bally” is so her thing!

In the meantime it’s been nothing but tuna, ground beef, string cheese and bacon treats.

“Mom, I’m dying, mom.” Yes, Sadie you are. And a little bit of mom is dying with you.

User login