When your dog gets cancer, and how to say goodbye

Best dog ever.

A month ago we said goodbye to Argo, the best dog ever. Sure, everyone thinks they have the best dog, but we really did. Even other people with dogs said so. But even the best dogs get sick, and all dogs eventually leave us.

I grew up with lots of pets, and said goodbye to lots of pets. The Fiance didn't. He got Argo as an 8-week old puppy 12 years ago. It took me four years to come into their lives but I was accepted immediately. Argo had a different relationship with me than he did with his dad - we joked that Argo loved me more because of the way he followed me around the apartment, sat next to me on the couch, cuddled me at night, and lost his damn mind when I came home. It didn't matter how many pets I had or even how many pets I lost. Some pets are special, and Argo definitely was.

We booped his snoot at least once a day.

It feels like the world is ending when your pet gets sick. Argo had symptoms since early February that our primary vet didn't flag. And, if I'm being fully honest, I had my concerns but didn't want to voice them in case... well, in case what happened happened. We were treating blood-tinged urine with a medicated food, which worked until it didn't. An agonizing week of specialist visits and tests and procedures got us a prostate cancer diagnosis. We learned that by the time prostate cancer is detected in dogs it tends to be pretty advanced. So we started June with a plan (chemo every 10-14 days, a strong-as-hell anti-inflammatory, and stay on the medicated food) but also a timeline.

The face of a dog after a chemo treatment.

Six months. I assumed (and hoped beyond belief) that was without treatment, if we let the disease run its course. Which, of course, wasn't an option because the tumor was limiting his ability to pee at all. As our urologist said, "that's incompatible with life."

The first few days were truly horrible. While we gave the anti-inflammatory a chance to kick in we had to manually drain his bladder with a catheter every 12 hours. Around the 36-hour mark it finally worked. We were out watching the Rock n Roll Marathon, my favorite Argo-and-me tradition since we moved in together (this year, The Fiance joined us). Argo had been squatting and straining for a few blocks but then, all of a sudden, a stream came out. I was so happy I cried.

Our last traditional Rock n Roll - the day I cried over urine.

Like the absolute champ he was, Argo handled the chemo really well. Animals don't typically have the same reaction to chemo that people do, fortunately. There was no hair loss, no appetite loss, barely any energy loss. Though he wasn't a fan of all the hospital visits, all the doctors and nurses adored him. We heard them playing with him in the back, asking for tricks and giving him treats.

But we eventually ran into challenges. All the cathetering gave him a UTI, and the oncologist prescribed an antibiotic that was supposed to be better for sensitive digestive systems (which he definitely had) but several hours after the first dose he vomited profusely. And I mean profusely. It would have been a lot of vomit for a much larger dog. Cue a 2am call to the hospital asking the on-call doctor what we should do. Our solution was giving him the antibiotic half an hour after he ate, which did the trick (coating it in peanut butter helped, too).

Normal before-cancer activities. My study buddy.

Then in the first few days of July, he stopped urinating again. We knew this was a possibility (well, an eventuality) but had hoped the chemo and anti-inflammatory would have done more, or at least worked longer. On July 3 we met with a urologist to take a closer look at the tumor and talk about placing a stent in his urethra. The stent would keep the urethra open - super important since the tumor had grown right up to his bladder and was blocking the urine flow.

 Another normal view before cancer. Those shaggy eyebrows.

And here's where I want to mention how fantastic animal doctors are. Every person we met throughout this process has been kind, compassionate, and amazing to Argo and to us. We were especially comforted by his urologist. She let us be encouraged by a solid stream of urine after his last catheterization and didn't push us to place the stent that day. In fact, she let us know that placing a stent is something she rarely recommends - it has to be the right solution for the dog at that time. She also let us know that she's Canadian and on call on the 4th, so if we didn't place the stent that day we could the next or the day after. She wrote her cell number on her business card and said to call or text.

Our last road trip with Argo - he could have done without the rain.

Well, we had to. In the afternoon on the 4th he still hadn't urinated so we called the urologist. We dropped him off and sobbed together in the car. It fucking sucked leaving him. Placing the stent was our last option. There were no other chances after this. It was a matter of when, not if, the tumor would grow through the stent. It could never be removed, replaced, or readjusted. Some dogs come in days later because it doesn't work... and that's that. One dog, she told us, made it a year ("he had no business surviving that long"). The average is a month or two.

We took him home that night and he was immensely more comfortable. Urinating a fresh stream, sleeping, and acting like himself again. We were relieved.

The time I accidentally took him to the beach on his birthday.

Argo had a mostly good month after that. Since we knew we were on borrowed time every day was truly a gift. Argo was peeing like a prince, eating, taking his medicine like the good boy he was, and still very much loving his walks. The stent made him incontinent (not that he had any control whatsoever) so he had to wear belly bands, which he did not love. We bought washable ones but since he was still taking chemo we had to be really careful. The oncologist told us not to wash them by hand, but we didn't have laundry in our unit. And, oddly, the expense and hassle of getting quarters and going down to the laundry room every day or two was where we drew the line (despite the thousands of dollars and hours we spent at various hospitals).

He peed on a person's foot on this day. Looks pretty pleased.

Our new normal had become pretty different since Memorial Day. Further, that "normal" had changed several times. Normal was at least one daily pill, a belly band at all times except outside, mopping regularly, multiple loads of laundry a week, and just an incredible amount of emotional stress. But it was also a good appetite (supplemented with half a scrambled egg broken into little pieces to make the medicated food more appealing and all the treats he wanted), trotting on walks, oinking during pets, snuggles on the couch and in bed, and losing his mind with happiness when his favorite people came to visit. The good days almost felt like the old normal. But the reality that the clock was counting down very quickly was very obvious.

This may have been his happiest day. It was his birthday. I can't get enough of that grin.

It all happened so quickly. From Memorial Day, when we got his diagnosis, to 4th of July, when we placed the stent, to mid-August, when we knew it was time to say goodbye, our lives changed in less than 3 months.

There was only four or five weeks in between the time the stent was placed and when it was clear Argo had declined. Most of that was time well spent with him, but eventually his lethargy was unmistakable. He wasn't interested in food - we sat on the floor and hand fed him whatever we could: scrambled eggs, boiled chicken breast, and an obscene amount of peanut butter. We bought all sorts of treats, including CBD treats, in the hopes that one of them would make him want to eat. We stopped the chemo and even the anti-inflammatory after a few weeks, just to see if his appetite would come back (it clearly wasn't doing anything to slow the tumor).

Another birthday - his last. He sure doesn't look 11.

We barely left the house in those last few weeks. I switched to working from home full time. If friends wanted to see us they came to our place. The Fiance made dinner for our anniversary instead of keeping the fancy dinner reservation he made. We didn't talk about Argo. We just tried to enjoy what time we had left. Both of us hoping he'd see his 12th birthday.

He didn't. At each vet appointment he had lost another half pound, which was too much for an already skinny dog. The week before his birthday he was 15 pounds, down from his peak of 20-21. He wasn't the same dog - it was time. I was lucky to have gotten a recommendation ahead of time from a friend who knows about saying goodbye to pets you love so much. I made the appointment for 4 days before his birthday.

He liked me pretty early on. The feeling was mutual. 

On his last day we went to Coronado dog beach. He relaxed in his bed in the back seat and when we got to the sand he trotted around. Other dogs came to sniff him and ask him to play, and he indulged them. We found a quiet spot and the three of us sat together and watched the waves. We took our last group selfie. His energy was up on the walk back and he even ran a little. Argo seemed to really enjoy being at the beach. My very first photo with Argo was at that same beach 8 years prior (when The Fiance and I were just friends), and now my last photo with him was taken there.

Our first photo together.

I carried him from the car upstairs to our apartment and put him on the couch. He went to sleep and, except for a brief period, didn't wake back up. A very kind vet came over and gave Argo what he needed to go peacefully and painlessly. He reassured us that we were doing the right thing, that waiting until they're so far gone isn't what euthanasia is meant to be. We're in the position to prevent suffering, not simply to end it.

It really was comforting to hear that. We held his paws until his heart stopped. The vet played with our bunnies while we said our final goodbyes, then bundled up our boy. We cried for a long time.

Argo's prime lasted a really long time, and for that I'm so grateful.

And now we have another new normal: a home without a dog. When Argo got his stent placed and we were sobbing together in the car, I told The Fiance that this will be the hardest thing we ever do. And it will - we have families and other less important things we can and will lose, but one of the ways I know we're right for each other is that we both believe family is the one you you make, and this is ours. We are having our first birthdays without Argo, will have our first holidays without him, and, worst of all, he won't be with us when we get married. We have a million photos and stories to remember him by, but sometimes something catches you in just the wrong way. Like seeing one of our dog friends with Argo's toy. Or going to bed feeling really alone because Argo isn't cuddled in my crook. Or seeing a stranger dog with the same brand of collar that Argo had. Or realizing we haven't left the house in a couple days because there's no Argo to walk. Or leaving food on the counter because Argo won't get it. Or not needing to make the bed because Argo won't sleep on my pillow.

In my paradise, I would see all of the animals I've loved again. Each of them would be in their prime, cats and dogs and rats would get along, and we would all cuddle at the end of a long, fun day. I would get to see Argo happy and excited again, like I'll always remember him. I'm not religious, and even when I was I was told animals don't go to heaven (which is one reason I'm not religious anymore), but I desperately want this to be real.

Goodbye, Argo. You were the best dog.

*Note: I wrote some of this before he died. I had this weird superstition that if I published it when things were going relatively well we'd be saying goodbye sooner. It ended up not mattering. I changed the tense to past and deleted the parts about what I hoped for and was afraid for and instead wrote what happened. The pain of losing an animal is no less real than the pain of losing any other loved one. All people are flawed, but our pets are perfect.