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THE DOG THAT
WOULDN’T DIE |
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I feel a little guilty writing about my dog
again, but then I saw that a former Chronicle columnist just wrote a whole
book about his relationship with his dog. At least I’m not that
pathetic.
Anyway, this is the continuing saga of our two
pugs: Lucy, the smartest dog in the world, and Rocko, the stupidest dog in
the world.
When last reported, Rocko had just pooped in the
living room for the 1242nd time, and I was determined to send
him off to college in San Diego with my sons. That’s when my wife’s
friend stepped in and offered to adopt Rocko.
"Hallelujah!!!" I cried. "Are you
nuts?"
Apparently, her dog had died not long ago, and
she occasionally came over and walked Lucy and Rocko, just for fun. She
had taken a liking to Rocko, and badly wanted him to come live with her.
My wife was not enthusiastic about giving him up,
even for a trial period. But the tantrum I threw when she said
"no" convinced her otherwise. She agreed to give it a try.
It was a win-win. Lucy was thrilled to be an only
dog, Rocko was thrilled with all the attention he was getting from my wife’s
friend, and I was absolutely ecstatic to not search for poops and pees
every morning when I woke up.
It lasted a month, and then came the call. "Rocko
has thyroid cancer," said my wife’s friend. "The doctor says
he has two months to live."
That put a damper on things. The next day Rocko came
bounding home, scampering around the living room looking for new places to
make deposits. Lucy seemed happy to see him, my wife was happy to see him,
even I was happy to see him.
He was back, and he sure didn’t look sick. "It’s
a trick," I said to my wife as I felt the lump in his throat.
"Maybe he’s not as dumb as I think. I bet he swallowed a golf ball
just so he could come home."
We took him to a vet for an x-ray. Sure enough, he had
cancer, but they couldn’t tell whether it was operable. For that, he’d
need a cat-scan (I know, I know—why don’t they call it a dog-scan.)
$1500 later, we got the results. My wife called me with
the news. It had spread to the point where it was inoperable. She was
crying, and I teared up a bit myself. Rocko didn’t deserve this.
We immediately put him on the cancer diet, which means
he can eat anything and everything, anytime he wants. And when he peed all
over the piano the other day, I petted him on the head and told him he’d
get it right next time.
It’s been four months since his "two months to
live" diagnosis, and Rocko shows no signs of slowing down. The golf
ball sized tumor in his throat (I’m still a little suspicious) hasn’t
grown, and his energy level hasn’t dipped.
The other day I looked at him and I could swear he
looked back at me and was thinking, "You’re going before me,
sucker."
But I know the day will come (for him, not me) and it
will be difficult for all of us. I’ve never had to put a pet down, but I’ve
heard from many who have, and it’s obviously very emotional.
I can’t imagine him suffering. He’s always so
oblivious to everything around him, I keep assuming he’ll be oblivious
to pain. But that’s not the way it works.
Yet I also honestly believe he’ll beat the odds, beat
the doctors, beat the cat-scans, beat everyone. He may be stupid, but he’s
as tough as they come. He looks like a Rocko.
And I’m rooting for him. I learned my lesson. I won’t
send him away again, even for a trial period. I’ll stop threatening to
send him off to college. I’ll happily clean up his poops and pees. Okay,
not happily.
And before it’s too late, I’ll say it: He’s not
really the stupidest dog in the world. He just acts like it sometimes. |
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