By Lori Welch Brown
April showers bring May flowers, and May brings Mother’s Day. Sadly, my mom passed in 2006. I was on the cusp of 40, but there was still so much I needed her for—so much she missed. She wasn’t there when I bought a house in Del Ray—which she would have loved as she grew up there. I like to think that she helped me land there just months after she passed—which was no easy feat given the real estate market at the time.
She missed meeting my husband, XXL, whom I am pretty confident she would have liked more than me. For sure she would have doted on him and taken his side in every disagreement. I can hear her now. “Lori, he looks hungry. Make him a sandwich.”
I never had kids of my own. Not by choice, but more by circumstance. It’s at the top of my regret list, but as they say, “God has a plan.” I love kids, and in my humble opinion, have been a kick-butt aunt. My nieces and nephews are all fully grown humans now, and my only regret there is that I don’t see them enough. And now the babies are having babies of their own. Which is crazy—wasn’t it just yesterday I was changing their diapers and making them wash my car? Hey—I paid them in chocolate.
My fur babies are my children. I realize that might alienate some women who have pushed something the size of a football through their nether regions. I get it. Dogs are not human. Cats are not children. To that I say—no. Of course not. You’re absolutely right. They’re better.
Dogs don’t talk back. Never once has Dozer told me I’m stupid—although there were plenty of legit reasons for him to have done so. Like the time I left his leash on the bumper of my car and then pulled away. Thank God he wasn’t attached to it at the time. Or the time we forgot he was outside, went to dinner, and came home to find him sitting, tapping his paw in a manner that clearly indicated he thought we were stupid, but not once did he say it.
He has never slammed a door or muttered something under his breath when I said something he didn’t like. Whenever I told him ‘no,’ his only agenda was to get back in my good graces. He would tuck his tail between his legs and slowly walk back to me begging forgiveness for digging up my plants or chewing up my flip flops. Hey—stop the judging. He was a puppy.
He never once asked for an expensive video game for his birthday or Christmas. He was thrilled with whatever was in his stocking—but especially his stuffed Lamb Chop which he adored. He didn’t take it back in his room and shut the door. No—he wanted to play with us, even through his teens and into his geriatric years. He never asked to borrow the car and then return it on ‘E.’ No—he preferred to be a passenger, content looking for other doggies with his head hanging out the passenger window.
My boy was a good boy. The BEST boy. For 12.5 years he was my studio assistant, co-pilot, protector, loyal sidekick, snuggle buddy, and walking companion. And as I’m writing this, he has been gone a week.
Last July he was diagnosed with prostate cancer. When the doctor came into the room and delivered the news, I howled like an injured animal. No. This couldn’t be happening. XXL and I made an appointment to see a veterinary oncologist. We knew we didn’t want to put him through anything invasive or that required him to be away from home for long periods of time. We opted for chemo treatments. Every 3-5 weeks we took him for his injection. The vet techs loved him. They would come get him from us and lead him through a door which I imagined led to a room with little recliners where the other sick doggies sat drinking OJ and eating cookies while IV’s dripped blue liquid into their veins.
The tech would lead him back to us after about 20 minutes and he’d have a little neon pink gauze wrapped around his ankle. He never once complained. Afterward, we would take him to the Vienna Inn for a hot dog or cheeseburger. While he didn’t complain, he did quickly learn to play the cancer card to his advantage—his extra treats cost almost as much as the chemo.
As time marched on, the weight slipped off. Each and every one of ribs showed. And then his pelvic bones. Our little boy was literally melting away before our very eyes. We called and scheduled Lap of Love to come do the unthinkable on a Thursday. And then we punted it to Monday. We weren’t ready. He wasn’t ready. On Friday, he chased the mailman one last time. Even the mailman was happy for it.
Dozer still had a tiny spark of energy.
And then the weekend came and he was doing his best to rally for a walk. He was happiest and most comfortable lying on the little hammock bed we set up in the living room for him. We were having to give him meds to get him to eat. Quality of life was slipping away.
It was a tough decision to say goodbye, but it was the right decision. I know that. But it was hard with a capital H. Counting down the hours and minutes until the vet got there, but then when the car pulled up, I wanted to jump up and dead bolt the door.
XXL let Dr. Kelly in, and she was lovely. She guided us through the process, allowing us time to say our final goodbyes. She suggested another treat—literally everything was on the table. We opted for vanilla Haagen Dazs and peanut butter. Dozer’s eyes lit up like he was walking through the pearly gates. We told him what a good boy he was, how much we loved him, and how grateful we were for all his hard work protecting us and his kitty sisters. And then it was over.
Our hearts shattered in a million pieces over a patch of fur that loved us unconditionally and brown eyes that understood every thought, feeling, and emotion.
Love. A mother’s love. It comes in all forms. It never goes away.
I am comforted knowing that Dozer is with my mom, running FAST and free. She will take good care of him until I see them both again.
To all the Mother energy out there, I wish you happiness, peace, and joy. Sprinkle that love on everything and everyone. It is what feeds all of our souls and perhaps the only thing capable of nurturing and healing the world.
About the Author: Lori is a local writer, painter and pet lover who loves to share her experiences and expertise with our readers. She has been penning a column for the OTC for over 25 years. Please follow Lori online on Medium for more missives like this.
