One good dog.

We led him out of the car and in through the back entrance. We were directed to a room with curtains and a blanket on the floor. We sat in the chairs while he lay on the blanket, and for once didn’t try to chew or play with it. When the vet came in, our boy smiled and wagged his tail. All the while his breathing was labored, so very hard for him, as it had been for days. We discussed various options, and then the vet and a young tech held him and gave him a sedative while we petted him and tried to stay in control. The vet and his helper left as he sank into sleep, but then he started to go into convulsions—I think the sedative made his labored breathing impossible to perform, but his cancer-ridden body was still fighting to draw in air. My wife ran for help; the vet and the tech came in immediately, shaved a spot on his leg, swabbed it, and injected what seemed like a huge amount of blue liquid, the color of Barbicide, into the spot, a massive overdose to stop his beautiful little heart. As he breathed his last, my wife sobbed and promised she would be good so that she would see him again someday on the other side. And then Nipper was gone.

They’re very good at hiding it, you know. Nipper was. He was too busy having fun and enjoying life. Whatever he was suffering, he was going to ignore it. And if the pack knew they might leave him behind. But we didn’t. We were with him to the last second.

The breathing was the thing, and it had crept up over a month, and it’s not like we didn’t notice it. It seems funny now, but weeks earlier my wife had Nipper in to see the vet because of a lump that we feared was cancer, but turned out to be a harmless lipoma. She asked about his breathing, but the stethoscope said there was nothing wrong in the lungs. What we did not know was the lymph nodes in his abdomen were pressing on the lungs already. Later he’d start spurning food more often than normal, but his well known reputation as the Spurner meant we thought little of it. Everything else was normal. A week ago Saturday he dashed out from a snow-laden backyard, past me on the driveway, to see a guy and his Lab on the street, Tralfaz chasing after him, me chasing both of them. Totally normal for him. He'd smelled the guy and the dog coming before I'd caught sight of them. He wanted to make friends.

It seemed to explode on the Tuesday after the Super Bowl. Suddenly he was unable to sleep; he’d lie there with his chest working like a billows trying to fan a spark in a snowstorm. Cancer crossed my mind, but lung cancer, and that usually has a lot more symptoms in dogs. And then I noticed a big lump while petting his chest. That was a lymph node.

Wednesday the vet used the word lymphoma, and took a biopsy. He said there was a chance it could be a mere infection. But he didn’t really think so. We wouldn’t get the results for three business days. In fact, we still haven't. But Wednesday night was horrible. I stayed downstairs on the sofa with the guys, and Nipper finally collapsed from exhaustion. The only thing he wanted to do that night was rest in a pile of snow, where he felt a little better. Everywhere he was in pain, and yelped when touched—which I never heard him do, not even as a puppy. He had not eaten in days. He licked his chops for chicken or cheese but wouldn't touch them. He was suffering.

Friend Mongo had told me when we were considering a golden that “You can’t go wrong with a golden.” He was right; goldens are perfect dogs, with one damn exception—they are among the breeds that have a high incidence of lymphoma.

Thursday I was sitting on the kitchen floor. (I had already written Friday's entry for this blog, scheduled its post.) While waiting for the vet’s office to tell us when to come in, I started to feel faint. He came over and licked my hand. Then I started bawling. Don’t lick me! I’m arranging to kill you. 

I don't want to sound superstitious, but when I was getting out the Christmas ornaments last December, the only one that broke was the glass golden retriever one I'd bought my wife. And now we're all broken.

The life has gone out of the house; he took it with him. He was only four. He was full of joy from the time we saw him and his siblings in a box like a bunch of fresh-baked dinner rolls. He was eager and happy when we saw him later, then took him home. He would lie on my wife's feet under her desk while she was working so he could be close to her. He was such a hungry puppy, like he couldn't get enough of anything good. Later he would dance when it was time for treats. He would wave his head at the door and smile when it was time to go outside and play, like I forgot how to get there. He would sidle up to you and sit with his back to you, happy, like You can pet me now! When I'd walk him he would look up at me from time to time with that smile: Isn't this great? (It was.) He would come get me at quitting time, and he was pretty punctual about it. He could be a complete pain in the ass, but only because he wanted to play and he didn’t like being ignored. He was the party. And we were all invited.

The weird haze that descends on you in the aftermath of something awful, the part the movies cut out, where you're confused and don't know what to do, is starting to lift. I’ve never put down a pet before, but I’ve lost plenty of people. I got my wife out of a smoking downtown on 9/11. I've faced plenty of rejections, layoffs, setbacks. I thought my heart had been broken so many times that it couldn’t shatter from a single shot like this anymore, but it did. A friend of mine wants to ask God why it hurts us so much when they go. Another says that losing a pet is a special kind of sadness.

My wife just wanted her baby back—Nipper was always her baby. But once they get cancer the clock starts ticking; the best result never means a normal life span. And he was so young.

He brought us a lot of happiness; he made us laugh every day. He was so good with other people and other dogs. He was never mean and seldom pouty. He was one good dog, and we lost him way too soon. Hope to see you on the other side someday, Nipper. We’ll all try to be good, I promise.