Love matters more
He lies next to me under the shade of our tiny gazebo, peacefully napping. Utterly clueless that just two days ago, I was told by his vet that he had a suspicious growth on his right lung that looked like a tumor. They wouldn’t know for sure, they said, unless they did a CT scan and a biopsy. That CT scan would set me back P87,000 and would only serve to confirm if there is, in fact, a tumor in his lung.
To confirm the tumor is malignant, they will still have to do a biopsy. And if it is malignant, then much like humans, the option is chemotherapy.
I didn’t even bother to ask how much all of that would cost. He will be nine years old in September. The average lifespan of a golden retriever is 10 to 12 years. Even assuming it is the worst of what they fear, if the cancer doesn’t get him, old age will. I would rather spend the P87,000 making him comfortable and happy than subject him to treatments that will leave him uncomfortable, confused, and scared.
I glance at his shaved belly and remember the look of fear on his face when they carried him away to be scanned. How he leapt with relief when they opened the door, and he found me waiting outside. I listen to his breathing.
Is he panting because he’s excited? Is he having trouble breathing again? How could he look perfectly fine when he’s pretty much on borrowed time?
If anything, we’re on borrowed time.
My found family
I look to the heavens. Again, not to question but to plead. Just a little more time, please. God, Lewis saved me. He’s still saving me. When I lost my daughter Sophia to sepsis, he was the one who kept leading me back to her room to stay there. To sit among her things, to sleep on her bed. To make peace with my loss.
Sophia named him after the boy in “Meet the Robinsons” who built a time machine and went back in time to find out why he was put up for adoption. Later on, the boy realizes that family isn’t just the people we’re related to, but the menagerie of creatures that become part of our tribe.
Lewis the dog stirs. His innocent eyes stare into mine, and every single time he does this, I still ask: “What in God’s name did I ever do to deserve to be looked at so adoringly?” I got Lewis from a breeder. He didn’t choose me. I chose him. But every single day, he chooses to love me the way he does.
And there is no question in Lewis’ mind. I am his family.
There’s never enough time
They say when you get a dog, you must be ready to have your heart broken. That you will most likely outlive even the strongest and healthiest of them. That there’s never enough time to love them and for them to love you.
But is there ever “enough” time? For anything? Anyone?
For hundreds of years, man has chosen to have a canine companion. Even knowing full well their hearts will likely be broken when they outlive their best friend. Knowing full well their tomorrows are likely to be fewer than ours. That there is inevitable pain at the end of loving.
But we love anyway.
Because love matters more.
The happy hops.
The walks that aren’t really walks but sniff-faris.
The slice of pizza stolen from the countertop and the “Who, me?!” look that keeps us from getting angry.
The wagging tail at the end of that particularly long and tiring day.
The gentle nudge of the snout when there are no words, just tears.
Good at goodbyes
The ones who don’t get it may never get it. And the ones who do, just do. How lucky are we to have the honor of such unconditional love in our lifetime?
They comfort us even when we weep for them. Celebrate us for just existing alongside them. Choose us every day with utter joy and helpless abandon.
And when people ask: But would you do it all over again, knowing a painful goodbye is likely to be facing you in the end? Without a second thought, the answer is and always will be the same—absolutely.
He nudges me with his snout. His signal for us to go inside because it’s starting to get hot. It must be my lucky day. Some days, he just poops nearby, so the stink will drive me to run into the house. I stand up and tell him he wins—we’re going in. He slowly gets up. His joints have been telling me what’s coming, long before this whole tumor business ever did.
I know at some point, I may have to make the painful decision of putting him to sleep. But today isn’t that day. Today, I just get to be with him. Today I just get to love him. Today, love gets to matter more.
