The day was Saturday, June 29, 2019. We lost a friend and a member of the family today. Rascal, our beloved black and white Boston Terrier was just shy of eleven years old. Watching him over the years, we saw the behavior reminiscent of a three-year-old, but he had the heart and compassion of a Mother Theresa. Even as a “youngster,” he was a quick learner and knew many words. He had been with me for ten and a half years and never missed an opportunity to say “I love you” in his many ways. Nothing beats an eager dog with wagging tail greeting you when you come home.

     He was six months old and anxious when we first brought him home from the breeder. However, he soon warmed to his new surroundings and we became his pack. We decided to call him “Rascal” as he just looked like a rascal in the making. It turned out he taught us the joy of taking care of a little one; “it’s kibble time,” “time to go potty,” “time to go night-night.”  He was never shy about letting us know his needs, especially when it came to food.

     He was energetic and had the curiosity of a cat. He loved to run and explore. Everything was new for him. His favorite snack was cheese, especially shredded cheese. He soon recognized the sound of the shredded cheese package when we got it from the refrigerator—even when he was in another room. In the last few years he acquired a taste for peanuts. Just like the shredded cheese, when he heard the peanut jar opening, he was there for his share. From our eyes, he was constantly hungry. It was not true, but it did seem that way. We accused him of having a clock in his stomach. He would consistently show up within ten minutes of his mealtime without being called. He was also a great kitchen helper, efficiently cleaning up food bits we may have dropped on the kitchen floor.

     While I was the alpha pooch, he would pay more attention to the women in his life. When my wife, Pat, was ill with later stages of Alzheimer’s, he didn’t pay much attention to me, but was by her side, leaning against her leg or lying on her foot providing loving comfort even though he did not know what was happening. He just knew something was not correct. When she passed away, he did not understand where she had gone and moped about for weeks. A year later when I remarried, he had a new woman to be close to. Carol and Rascal quickly bonded. They were buds.

     Rascal was a member of the family. We took care of him and, of course, he took care of us with unconditional love. He was the pivot point in our activities as one of us had to be home near feeding time or make sure we did not leave him more than five hours. It was not that he would get lonely, he just needed to pee.

     Our mornings started with Rascal. When we got up, he got up. The first order of business was letting him out to go potty. We never worried about him straying. While he was out one of us would fill his food bowl. When he completed his business, he would scratch at the storm door. He never left the front yard even when a dog walker passed by. When we went to bed, he knew he was to go out to potty and then go “night-night.” He slept through the night, every night. However, unlike a three-year-old, he snored loudly before getting into a deep sleep.

     Six months ago, we became aware he was having a problem. We took him to the doctor and after many tests, he was diagnosed with Cushing’s disease. Cushing’s over activates the pituitary gland pumping large doses of cortisol into the system causing rapid weight gain. Medicines slowed the weight gain, but the long-term prognosis was that he could easily die from the disease.

     Then, a month and a half ago, we noticed a dramatic loss of energy. More medical tests revealed he had an inoperable throat tumor restricting his breathing. He had bouts when he struggled as if he had asthma. In one episode, he almost died as we rushed him to the emergency room. The doctor there said any excitement could send him into pulmonary crisis and prescribed tranquilizer pills to calm him if he became anxious again.

     Yesterday and last night his breathing was very labored. This morning we could tell he was within a day of passing away. He just lay on the floor struggling to breathe. We called in a veterinarian service for in-home end-of-life care. The doctor’s exam showed Rascal’s tumor had filled most of his neck area. While I petted and talked to Rascal, the doctor administrated a sedative. Rascal could still hear me, and I continued to talk to him stroking his fur. When he was fully relaxed, the doctor gave him the euthanasia drug and Rascal passed slowly away without any pain. The procedure was so soft and loving neither Rascal nor we had any anxiety. It was a beautiful experience bringing us to tears.

     Euthanasia for a pet, a member of the family, is hard. There is grief and tears. The grief never goes away, but we know from experience that it will fade. Grieving leads to holding a loved one in your heart. It is what you do for someone you love. We miss you Rascal.

Larry Patzer
July 2019

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RASCAL, Part 2

As I finished reading Garth Stein’s book “The Art of Racing in The Rain,” tears welled up in my eyes. The story is about a race car driver and his trials and tribulations. His dog, Enzo, narrates the story. Enzo is very observant and wise. He understands all that is going on and is frustrated he cannot speak to help his master. Enzo has lived a long life and is ready to die. He looks forward to death. He feels he has completed all he needs to do and believes his soul will come back as a man. He is ready to pass on.

     In the final pages Enzo collapses on the floor and his master, Denny, holds Enzo’s head on his lap, scratches below his ears, leans close, and tells him it is OK to go. Enzo slowly passes away while Denny continues to hold him in an embrace.

     Our dog, Rascal, died just a month ago and I wrote a commentary, Rascal, on his life. The scene of his passing was strikingly similar to Enzo’s. Rascal was a loyal and loving part of our family. In many ways he was like a three-year old youngster and much of our lives revolved around his schedule. He understood us quite well and we loved him dearly. As his passing rapidly approached, he was there on the floor and I petted him, scratching below his ears telling him how we loved him. Like Enzo, he slipped into a deep sleep and never woke up.

     My eyes watered as I read of Enzo’s passing. It was all so familiar. I had naively thought that I would get over Rascal’s death quickly, but grieving does not work that way. With watery eyes I needed to do something else as a distraction. I picked up the day’s mail and the first envelope had my name handwritten on the envelope. It turned out to be a condolence card from the pet insurance company with handwritten notes from each of the staff. It had only been twenty minutes after reading the book. The tears started in earnest.

     I am familiar with grief. I spent nine years caring for my wife with Alzheimer’s. Nine years of anticipatory grief and the so-called “standard” grief following her passage. She is still in my mind and heart although the intensity of those memories has faded in the past years. My new wife has a similar story with her late husband. We talk about our late spouses (the four of us met 38 years ago) and have their memories throughout our home. They are not paramount in our lives, but we will not forget them. And so it is with Rascal. We had months of anticipatory grief and now we grieve his passing. We know the intensity will fade but we still have a recurring expectation for him to excitedly greet us when we come home and eagerly lick up the crumbs on the kitchen floor.

Larry Patzer
August 2019

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