My dog Molly had an emergency on Wednesday of this week. Then,
I lost her on Thursday afternoon.
After a sonogram, Dr. Roger Knighton called with the bad news: She had an 8-inch
diameter tumor in her chest, a 6-inch diameter tumor in her abdomen, and another
6-inch diameter tumor below her lumbar. The tumors were "leaking," as the vet
called it, which was causing her to bleed out and also filling her eyes with
blood (thus her sudden blindness). The cancer was systemic and too far advanced
to treat. Her breathing was becoming increasingly labored with each hour that
passed. She was always stoic, which made it difficult to tell when she didn't
feel well, but I am looking back and agonizing over signs I may have missed.
Since then, though, I've learned that with hemangiosarcoma -- an aggressive,
high-grade soft tissue sarcoma -- early detection is difficult. I'm thankful
that I opted to take her home with me from the clinic Wednesday evening for what
turned out to be her last night, then returning her for more tests and a
sonogram the next morning.
When the vet called to tell me that her breathing was becoming even more
laborious, I had still expected to pick her up and bring her home. I knew it was
critical, just not how imminent. I asked, "Is it a matter of days?"
"It's
a matter of hours," he said.
I jumped in my Jeep with Rosy, Molly's look-a-like pal and constant companion
for seven years, and headed to the clinic. Once there, Molly buried her head in
the crook of my elbow and I talked quietly to her. She couldn't see me, but she
knew it was me. She lay next to me and put her head on my leg. It was difficult
to see her breathing so heavily. I stroked her head, and she settled in and was
comfortable. I wanted Rosy to be there so she wouldn't wait for Molly to come
home and wonder where she was. Molly loved Rosy, so it was good for her too. It
was very peaceful and, afterward, a relief that her discomfort was over. As one
friend put it, her dog taught her two years ago how to help him die well. It was
a matter of hours, so instead of dying that night in a kennel all alone, she
passed away quietly and peacefully with Rosy and me by her side.
Molly was the sweetest girl, and I'll miss her friendly, engaging personality. I
adopted her in 2000 when I stopped by PetSmart for cat food and ended up going
home with a puppy from Best Friends' mobile adoption. She's the reason I began
volunteering and eventually working for Best Friends. She was just 10 weeks old,
but she had the funniest personality. She loved three things more than anything
else: swimming, hiking and playing fetch. She and Hollywood, my big
Mastiff-yellow Lab boy, would sit on the shore at Lake Mohave where I take them
each summer, then they'd stand up simultaneously as if they had said to each
other, "Wanna go swimming?" They'd wade into the water, swim side by side and
then follow each other around in the water. They'd swim back to shore and lie
down, then a while later get up again to swim. Molly enjoyed swimming in a
circle around me when I'd go in the water with them.
Six-and-a-half years ago when Molly's luxated ankle was repaired because it was
getting increasingly difficult for her to walk, she never once complained -- not
a whimper -- even though she had a plate and five pins inserted and had to wear
a cast. Once she healed, she was quite the hiker and built up to a 10-mile hike
on Mt. Charleston and a 7-mile hike in Red Rock Canyon. If there was a water
hole or creek nearby, she always managed to find it -- mud, algai and all. Molly
made a point of staying by my side on the trail, while Rosy and Woody ran ahead.
I've always said she was a heeler trapped in a basset body, and it was true,
because most of her weight was in her top half and in her barrel chest. Her legs
were short, and she had a boxy build, but she had the instincts of an Australian
cattledog (heeler) and would try herding other dogs at the park. And if Rosy
wandered too far off the trail, Molly would bark at her, scolding her into
returning. At the dog park, she'd run hard to catch a ball in the air and people
were always surprised to see a short, stocky dog catch fly balls like she was an
agility dog. She was a trooper. On Mt. Charleston in Nevada or Kanab, Utah, in
the winter, she would practically bounce through the snow. Sometimes she'd get
on her back and roll on it. She was as at home in the snow as she was in the
water.
She was the happiest greeter over the years to my various foster dogs. Patty --
who adopted Molly's sister Lizzie -- said she was "Mother Molly," always taking
care of others. Simple trips to PetSmart were an adventure. She'd greet everyone
she'd see with a wriggling body, then get down to business by putting her nose
on the first shelf where the chewies, rawhides and bones were displayed, and
then she'd walk down the aisle, stopping to pick up what she wanted. It was a
ritual she perfected over time.
I'm arranging to have Molly placed at Best Friends' Angels Rest. Molly loved the
sanctuary, and we often hiked in the area, most recently across the creek from
the canyon where she'll be placed. Molly and her litter were born in Orem, Utah,
so it's fitting that she's returning to Utah.
