Goodbye Is the Hardest Word

It started, as many things do, with an email. The subject line read: Roc Needs Help.

If I’d had any sense, I’d have deleted it. After all, I didn’t know any Rocs. I did know the person it was from: the West Coast Coordinator of the American Brittany Rescue.

I have adopted five of the eight Brittanys I’ve owned from ABR. AS a volunteer, I visit potential adopters to see if they are worthy of ABR’s dogs, and I’m tougher than most human social workers. I also help out on transporting them to their new homes.

I don’t do shelter visits. The only time I’ve been in a shelter it was to rent a have-a-heart trap. I walked out with a dog.

Against my better judgement I clicked on the email. It turns out Roc was an elderly male Brittany.

People who place dogs have to be really smart and Diana is one of the best. She pulled out all the stops as she told his story. Roc had been a stud dog, (when I looked at the picture I knew why; this was one handsome chunk of a dog), who had come to ABR when his breeding days were over.  

Somewhere along the line he’d developed separation anxiety, making him hard to place, but after a long search, and with the right medication, he found a wonderful couple who loved and treasured him.

That should have been the end of the story but naturally, there was a tragic twist. Now, three years later, one of his people needed a heart transplant, and with all of Roc’s issues, they simply couldn’t keep him.

Like all responsible rescues, ABR always takes its dogs back. The now 13-year-old Roc was returning but there was no place to put him. There aren’t many people who will take senior dogs, particularly those with problems.

I’m proud to be one of them. Since I’ve adopted two previous seniors, net to my name there's probably the word ‘gullible’ written in red ink.  It could be worse.

After reading the email my first reaction was to close my eyes and yell “I don’t see you.” Instead I took my dogs for a walk.

Actually, three walks, since each one goes separately.  It’s good exercise, but time consuming. Which is awesome when I’m trying to clear my head or avoid writing.  Obviously, my dogs are really fit from all that walking.

It didn’t work. I couldn’t get Roc out of my head.

I had good reasons to turn Roc down.  Literally the biggest was Murray. Murray was my heart dog. A huge Great Dane We'd been together since he was six weeks old and 11 pounds, Murray didn’t take to strange dogs even in the best of times.

This wasn’t the best of times. He was ten, arthritic and grumpy. He occasionally even snapped at his best friend, Poppy the Brittany. Thankfully, Poppy, a happy, alpha bitch if there ever was one, didn’t care. She just bit him back. These days she could outrun him.

Additionally, I was going to be out of town for three weeks, and I couldn’t possibly take Roc before I returned, and I knew time was a factor. Also when I came back my mom was visiting for a month. She’s older herself, and a little unsteady. Settling them both in could be a problem.

I called Diana to explain. Did I mention that she is a genius at what she does? Mere moments after we’d talked she rang back, saying she’d found a temporary foster to take Roc until I returned. As for mom, well, Roc was pretty sedentary and loved older people.

Three weeks and one day later, mom and I were on our way to pick up Roc.  I was worried about how he’d adjust. I shouldn’t have. After we put his bed in my car he hopped in and never looked back.

Before we left we had to gather up his stuff. He came with a lot: leashes, collars, a reflector vest, a couple of coats, dinner bowls and lengthy medical records.

With help from Prozac for his separation anxiety and Rimadyl for his arthritis, Rocky became the perfect dog. 

He and Murray forged an understanding which mostly involved ignoring each other. Roc didn’t have much use for the girls, Poppy and my other Dane, Dalai, but they got along.

A huge plus were his immaculate manners; he begged for food, but he didn’t steal. He never barked. Ever.

I hoped my other dogs would learn from him. They didn’t.

Rocky didn’t care about much other than being near his person. Quickly that person became me. He immediately claimed the dog bed in my office, and squished into the small space Murray didn’t hog on my bed. All Rocky really wanted to do was snuggle. So we did.

I lost Rocky this week. His pain had become unmanageable and his quality of life was no longer good. It was, as it always is, an awful, horrible decision.

We only had a year and a half together. It wasn’t long, but he took a huge piece of my heart with him when he left. I don’t regret it for a minute.

Inevitably there will be another email from Diana. Sadly, there always is.

In a heartbeat I’ll do it all over again.