Two years ago, my husband and my family lost two wonderful, loving pets, Caspar and Lilly. But maybe “lost” isn’t the right word. I still feel their presence in our home, and in the places where they loved to run, romp, and swim. I have such warm memories of these two wonderful companions: Camping and hiking in the Rocky Mountains of New Mexico and Colorado, outings to dog parks, special trips to McDonald’s to get cheeseburgers and ice cream. I miss them so much, and I still find myself teary-eyed when looking at their photos, and when my husband and I recount our many adventures over the years.
These two pups enriched my life in so many ways. And they did it just by being themselves, by being dogs. They both offered no judgments, only unconditional love, and companionship. They just wanted to be with me, my husband, and my family, no matter what we were doing. I could be sick in bed with the flu, and they would hang out on the foot of the bed, occasionally getting up to lick my face. I could be in the mood for a hike or a walk, and they would be immediately up for it. Cleaning the house, they would be right there, inspecting my work. And then there was cooking, they loved to supervise meal preparation!
Caspar was a Golden Retriever, and Lilly a Great Pyrenees mix. They were about a year apart, Caspar being a bit older. One March morning, a year ago, Caspar came down with cancer. I was going to take him and our German Shepherd for a morning walk. He wanted to go (that was Caspar, always up to accompany me where ever I was going), but I knew something was wrong. As a veterinary nurse of 15 years, I knew the symptoms of hemangiosarcoma, a highly aggressive cancer. My worst fear was realized. Radiographs and ultrasound revealed a splenic mass, it had started to bleed into his abdomen. The surgeon at the clinic where I worked removed the spleen, and we pursued chemotherapy afterward. At the same time, Lilly was diagnosed with bladder cancer and osteosarcoma of the foreleg. She also went to surgery, half of her bladder was resected, and her forelimb amputated. Lilly had chemotherapy as well for her osteosarcoma and medical management for her bladder cancer.
Caspar did wonderfully for three months post-op: We went hiking, and one spring day took all of our dogs swimming for an afternoon at a nearby reservoir. Caspar had a blast, running along the beach, fetching sticks in the water with our other German Shepherd. Lilly never cared for the water, but she enjoyed sniffing along the shore. Then we took the entire crew for ice-cream afterward. It was a good day.
Then that day came, three months later, when Caspar collapsed, he was weak, his gums were pale, and he stopped eating and drinking. Radiographs and ultrasound revealed the “trifecta” of hemangiosarcoma. The cancer cells had metastasized to the heart and lungs: He was dying. As I lay with him on the floor of my bedroom, in the middle of the night, I told him “I hoped I would have more time with you, we were having so much fun.” Through my sobs and tears, I told him, “I don’t want to say goodbye, I don’t want to say goodbye.” But I couldn’t let him suffer. I drove to my clinic in the early hours of the morning, and holding his head in my hands, I looked into his eyes. He looked so weak, and I could see that he was ready. But I wasn’t ready, I didn’t want to see him go, I felt like a part of me was disappearing right before my eyes. I didn’t want to say goodbye. The veterinary technician in me knew that this was the best decision, that I had to let him go, to pass over the rainbow bridge. As the veterinarian pushed the euthanasia drug through his IV, I held him close, his head on my chest, and I sat there while he passed over, sobbing along with the veterinarian and all of my co-workers who were working the ER shift. My husband, my kids, my friends, we all cried spontaneously during the following weeks.
Then the day came for Lilly. Lilly was such a trooper, a loving girl who could make friends with anyone. She lasted almost 12 months after her foreleg was removed. Then she started to become less active, to pick at her food. Then one night her breathing became labored, and she had a hard time getting up. My husband and I rushed her to the ER in our truck, her breathing becoming more labored, and her tongue turning purple. I told her to hang on, hang on. I didn’t want her to go into cardiac arrest en route, I didn’t want her to suffer that agony. We arrived at the ER, the technicians were so wonderful and solemn, talking in quiet, voices, full of empathy. As the veterinarian, once again, pushed the drug through Lilly’s IV, I held her head in my lap, kissing her head, thanking her for being my furry companion for 11 years. I told her to send our love to Caspar, that he would meet her at the other end of the rainbow bridge. I didn’t want to say goodbye, I didn’t want to let her go.
So when I think of Caspar and Lilly, two wonderful dogs that I was so lucky to have spent my life with, even for a brief period of time, I do not think of the words “lost” or “goodbye.” As the Third Law of Thermodynamics says, “energy is neither created nor destroyed,” so I figure that means that Caspar and Lilly are still part of the universe, that their essence is still here. So, I don’t say “goodbye,” I say, “until we meet again, at the other end of the rainbow bridge.”