Last summer, I made a post on this blog that received quite a large response. I wrote about the homecoming of our dog Vernon, a guide dog for the blind, who I raised and trained for the first two years of his life. After training with me, Vernon had left our family and spent the next seven years working as a guide dog in New York City. Last year, newly retired, Vernon came home to us to live out his senior years in suburban comfort. Click on this link to read more about Vernon’s early years in training with us, as well as his service as a guide dog.
We had hoped that Vernon had many more years of “the good life” ahead of him. But sadly, it was not meant to be. Earlier this year, in March, I noticed an odd looking lump on Vernon’s rear end. The vet didn’t give us good news. We were likely dealing with cancer, specifically an anal sac adenocarcinoma. The tumor already extended into his body by four or five inches, and surgery wasn’t going to eliminate the problem. In fact, surgery might make matters worse, damaging the delicate nerves that allowed Vernon to control his bowels and bladder. Essentially, there was nothing we could do.
For months, Vernon seemed like his normal self. He ate his dinner with gusto, played outside in the yard, and swam in his kiddie pool on hot summer days. That dog always did love to swim in his pool. Despite his old age, he tolerated Aiden’s antics and was a gentle and reliable buddy to our active toddler. But all the while, the tumor kept growing. It got as big as two baseballs, even pushing his tail off to one side. Still, Vernon went about his daily doggy business without any problems.
And then, this week, it happened. Vernon, the best housebroken dog I’ve ever known, the dog who would rather die than have an accident on the floor, lost control of his bladder. He peed and dribbled all over the first floor of the house and sat by the door with a sad look on his face. I felt so awful looking at that dog, who felt guilty for something he couldn’t control. I knew something was very wrong. I watched him outside, urinating and then taking a few steps, then urinating some more, a few more steps, then more urination. I watched him strain to empty his bowels, only to try again a minute later because he couldn’t do it.
We had to make the decision. The decision that is kind and humane and utterly breaks your heart. This was the beginning of the end for Vernon, and we owed it to him to allow his last days to be as pain free as possible. So I made the appointment, and then made him a pound of ground beef, fed him six hot dogs, and a pile of dog biscuits.
Jason and I took him to the vet and sat on a thick blanket with him on the floor. We were already crying the moment we walked in the door. Jason rubbed Vern’s ears while I scratched his belly. Vernon grunted with pleasure, his tail thumping his approval. We simultaneously dreaded the moment to come, and just wanted it over already.
The vet came in. It was time. I grabbed Vern’s big head and rubbed his ears, whispered into them so no one else could hear except me and this big hearted pup. “You are such a good dog, Vernie. I love you, buddy. Thank you for everything, you good, good boy.” As the vet made the injection, Jason held Vernon’s head and talked to him while I rubbed his neck and ears. And wouldn’t you know… this dog who had never been much of a kisser… reached out and licked Jason across the face. His final act… a kiss.
It was as if he was saying thank you. When really, we should be the ones thanking him.
We’ll miss you Vernon. You were, and always will be, a damn good dog.
