On Unexpected Goodness, Coming and Going

After a family with two little girls decided the chocolate lab they’d purchased as a pedigreed puppy was too rambunctious for them, Action Jackson came to live with us. But not before MrM’s brother, who worked with a friend of that family, heard about them wanting to find their dog a new home.  Since the brother lived by himself and was missing the quiet old dog that had been his companion for years and did little but eat, sleep, pass gas, and quietly wait for him to come home, he decided to give Jackson a try.  Unfortunately for him and luckily for us his work required him to spent long hours away from home and he’d leave the young dog outdoors in his fenced-in back yard when he was gone. And there the action part of Jackson’s legacy was realized through barking, chewing on things and finding new ways to escape the fence and run.  The last time J managed to get out he was taken into custody by the local police and put in their holding tank after running around downtown (a mile from the house) and jumping up on one of the local police officers (from behind!), knocking him down.  When they finally managed to collar and contain him, they called the  brother (whom they knew from the coffee shop and previous escapes) and told him in no uncertain terms that something needed to be done with his dog.  A plan to take him to the pound was already underway when we received a call from MrM’s mom, who’d all along kept insisting he was a “lovely dog”, asking if we’d be interested in taking him.  We said yes and she made the two hour drive up to our house to deliver him that same day, (Feb 28, 2001) with MrM out of town and only myself and the Msons home to receive him.

That night, after he’d chewed up a brush, bit a hole in a bottle of shampoo and destroyed a shoe while temporarily confined to our utility room, I broke my ankle attempting to take him for a walk.  He was not accustomed to heeling and I knew nothing (yet) of how to encourage a dog to listen and walk alongside, so I put on my boots and we went flying off into icy darkness with the leash taut and him in the lead.  We’d made it past the first house and were rounding the corner on the slightly inclined sidewalk of the second when I hit black ice, slid into their driveway and fell, hearing and feeling my bone snap as I went down.  Unable to get up, but thankfully still holding the leash of an anxious and rambunctious dog who’d finally decided to sit,  I called home and reached the older SonM.  Although he hadn’t yet taken driver’s training or driven our van before,  I asked if he thought he could back it out of the garage and come find us.  When I saw the headlights heading straight for us,  fear kicked in with an “Oh Sh*t,  what if he doesn’t know how to stop in time and runs me over?” moment, but he did fine.  With his help I managed to get up and home to return the dog to the already decimated utility room before going to the hospital where the fracture was set with a stabilizing plate screwed to the bone.

 In time I recovered and so did the dog, who eventually learned to heel, loved being indoors and rarely left my side in the months that followed.  He turned out to be as lovely as promised and a good fit with our family.  We had ten wonderful years together. Recently, while going through the last of the boxes I’d packed for the move, I found the following written the day he died nine years ago. 

We let Jackson go at noon today.  The end came in a way I couldn't have imagined.  It flowed and included a measure of grace and dignity we were not expecting.  As I was heading for bed at 2:30 am, MrM was getting up saying he couldn’t sleep, so we sat together listening to J’s rapid breathing in the darkness, acknowledging the hard reality that we’d come to the point where we needed to do something soon, that day or the next at the latest.  What we weren’t clear on was how to go about the process of seeing it through.  We had an appointment scheduled with the cancer specialist for 11 and talked about not going before deciding I would try to get some sleep and MrM would go to work early, take off at ten, and we’d go together to the cancer doc to see what she had to say.

Yesterday, after DrD (our vet) made the lymphosarcoma diagnosis, he told me about a cancer vet who was tops in her field.  I was skeptical, not wanting to be talked into chemotherapy or more tests and intervention.  He assured me she was compassionate and very good at what she did.  He thought going to see her might help us have more clarity about what to do.  He even went so far as to schedule the appointment for us, which I let him do, though I wasn’t sure it was a good idea.  I didn’t want to needlessly spend more money or feel more guilt if we decided not to commit to treatment.


She turned out to be different than I was expecting, able to listen and present options without pushing, all the while gently confirming that he was indeed in serious condition.  She told us she could do more tests if we wanted to be sure, but they were likely to show Stage 5 involvement, with his lymph nodes the size of golf balls, much larger than yesterday.  She also affirmed that we were now dealing with two terminal diseases in a body already compromised and starting to shut down. (The presence of Cushing’s disease was determined earlier that year.)  From there the discussion gently moved to euthanasia which she said she was prepared to help with if we wanted to talk over that decision.  Even though handling that with her wasn’t in our minds when we arrived  (we’d been planning to use our own vet) the idea of letting her handle it started to seem like a good one. As a cancer specialist, she was not only skilled in providing the treatments needed to extend life, she was also practiced in providing endings as the average remission for a dog with successful chemo treatment is usually a year (10 human years).   When I told her I needed affirmation that this was the responsible thing to do, she looked at me and said “Yes, it is.  He has fought the good fight”   She also said the drug most successful in dealing with the cancer he had was not as successful with Cushing’s patients because of the steroid resistance that builds up with that disease.  As a result we were clear on what we needed to do. 

She told us we could have the procedure done outdoors if we wanted, since it was a nice day.  They would take him to the lab, put the IV needle in his leg for the sedative and final injection, and then bring him out to sit with us on a blanket on the grass behind the office.  We could say goodbye for as long as we needed before they’d come to administer the drug that would stop his heart.  We’d been so dreading the act of putting him in the car for the last time to take the long sad ride to the vet’s office, that handling it this way seemed like an unexpected gift.  It was quiet and peaceful outdoors, with no one else around when we went out to spread the blanket and be with him.  The sun was shining, the breeze was blowing, and he was able to sit in the grass for a bit, look around, sniff the air, take a drink of water, pee on a nearby dog spot with what little urine he had left, and then come back and to settle down next to us, his pack-- all the good things a dog likes to do, while we said our goodbyes. 

When we were ready, the vet gave him the injection and he was gone within a matter of seconds.  He laid his head down and went from life to no life, gently, quietly and quickly.  No trauma, no anxiety, no pain, just a good and noble dog coming to the end of his days with those who loved him alongside.  It doesn’t get much better than that, even for humans.  We stayed with him for a short while, taking in the awareness of him being truly gone, but there is something empty about death that discourages lingering.  Maybe it is the total absence of any dynamic--what was present and alive minutes before ends up looking flat, dull and empty; and we knew when it was time to leave.  As they came out with the cart, we walked to the car (having paid ahead when they were putting in the IV) and drove home to a house with no dog for the first time in ten years.  

 It’s going to take a while for us to get used to the idea of him not being here with us.  Our feelings of loss, sadness and “goneness” are very great. The one good thing we have is peace about the way this day worked out.  No regrets or second guessing.  The sign on the wall at the vet's office said something about the love of a good dog being a wonderful thing.  And it truly is. We rest with that. Tonight, when Dr D called to follow up, he said Jackson was on his list of the top ten dogs he has cared for. He sounded sincere and when  I told MrM that, he paused for a moment said, “He was number one on mine!”  Mine too.  He was definitely one of a kind. 

In Jackson’s coming and going we experienced a gift of unexpected goodness outside of our  immediate control.  It helps me to remember this when life gets dark and things are not as they seem.

What unexpected goodness can you recall having received in your life that stands out as a touchstone?