We came back from our weekend in California to find Rocket completely out of sorts. As many pets as we’ve had over the years, my wife and I are pretty attuned to sudden variations in behavior and were understandably alarmed; it was completely unlike him to snub his meals, and even more unusual to shorten (or abandon entirely) his cherished walks. Above all else, he just looked wrong to our eyes, enough that we haunted our usual vet until a midweek cancellation allowed us to sneak him in for an emergency review.
Nothing seemed obvious to our vet out of the gate, but tests were ordered and some medication prescribed just in case he was having another bout of sour stomach; a lump on his leg that had grown more pronounced was biopsied and, to our horror, revealed the possibility of a sarcoma. Surgery was scheduled for the lump before we returned home, worried all was not well with our fur child. By the time we reached Friday, our concerns seemed to have been well founded when Rocket began to have trouble walking — and then crashed to the floor of our living room just after dinner. When he was unable to get back up, I carried him to the car and we swiftly headed to an emergency veterinarian in Tucson, fearful the worst possible situation any pet owner might face was upon us.
The expression on the doctor who met with us was enough to get my heart pounding; the words that followed were devastating enough that I felt as though I’d been punched in the gut by someone wearing brass knuckles. Our amazing companion had a body riddled with tumors, a form of aggressive cancer than had not been on his x-rays a year earlier. There were no good options at that point, so we were forced to let him go long before we were ready to do so.
We’ve lost pets before, of course, but Rocket arrived on our doorstep just a few months before the pandemic turned the world upside down; his constant presence and unwavering love for his humans got us through those dark days. Sure, he stole my spot on the couch regularly, but given the difficult life he’d had prior to joining our family, I was more than willing to overlook his transgression. I may have also been the one that opened the door to him snuggling into us each night on our bed, a rather difficult prospect given his size. Still, I know he was happy — happier than he’d ever been — which makes it all the worse that we’ve lost him in the way we did.
It’s been a week now since he left us, and I keep seeing Rocket everywhere. I know it will be a bit before I stop doing that, but what feels odder is how guilty I feel when his usual walk times arrive and we’re not suiting up to take him out. The bed also seems far larger now that he’s not with us (which it’s not, of course), and it’s insanely weird not to have to convince him to get out of my seat on the couch so I can watch television with my wife. I can’t quite get myself to take up his water and food dishes; his collars are still sitting on the bureau, right where we left them after his final walk.
Yeah, I miss him.
In time, we’ll head back to the Animal Refuge League and see if there’s another dog willing to take a chance on us. Hopefully one will. But for now, we need a little more time to grieve.