I think it's going to be a long long time

Our Rocket-dog was recently diagnosed with an incurable cancer. She doesn’t have long to live. You wouldn’t know it. There’s zero hint of diminishment. Rocket’s as herself as she’s ever been. A one-of-a-kind eight-year-old hound-mix with the nervous system of a Chihuahua at a Metallica concert. My husband tells people that Rocket is a “Royal Egyptian Hound.” A made-up breed to account for her glamorous kohl-lined eyes and occasional regal demeanor, that is, when she’s not eating rabbit poo, howling at a hot air balloon or licking her privates.  

It’s my husband’s doggedness that brought Rocket into our lives. We’d been grieving the loss of our yellow lab for years. A gigantic goofball of a dog that loved us well for over a dozen years. Until we had him, I’d never known the power of “god” backwards. The comforting weight of his head on my knee. The unconditional love. It was tough losing him. New to “dog-dom” as I was, I thought what a bum deal! Who came up with this plan of taking care of an adored animal, year after year, only to have to let them go? That we’re supposed to be a family without them? 

No wonder it took so long to consider another dog. But, eventually, we did and agreed on three criteria. One, we’d adopt an older dog, definitely not a puppy. Two, a yellow-lab-mix. And three, a female.

I was at work when my husband called to say our neighbor just adopted a puppy from the Humane Society. He was headed there to look at the remaining pups in the litter. I replied, “Do not adopt a puppy!” My husband heard, “Don’t come back without one!” Next thing I know, he texts me a photo of a black and brown puppy blissfully sleeping in a car. Our car! When I reminded him of our agreed-upon criteria, he gleefully shouted, “One out of three! Nailed it!” Then proffered me a pup with the biggest brown eyes ever.

Since Rocket’s mother’s name is Fenway, all her pups were named after Red Sox players. Ours a tribute to Roger Clemens. Love him or hate him, we kept the name because at an adorable eleven pounds, Rocket was too cute a moniker to dismiss. Our neighbors adopted Pesky, who was renamed Lexi, and the two sisters grew up across the street from each other, lovingly cementing our two households into a familial connection that often finds us chasing after one dog or the other.

We could choose chemotherapy for Rocket, which gives approximately a 70 percent chance of nine months. Maybe. Then there’s the lousy side effects and ongoing oncologist vet visits which make her so anxious she’s prescribed two different drugs before each appointment to help calm her. Poor pup. Like my mother used to say, “She needs more stress like a hole in the head.”

Today Rocket’s playing, napping, running and enjoying belly rubs galore. How can we disrupt the last months of her life with drugs that could make her sick? Would we be prolonging her pain or discomfort? Let me tell you this. We do not know. No one does. It feels like our search for the “right answer” is a bitter unsolvable riddle to forestall the hovering grief. 

We only know that if there was a cure, we’d be all in. And we’d walk the walk with her to healing. But that is not an option we have. So now, we walk the walk with her to the end. It breaks our heart every day.

Once again, our Rocket-dog teaches us about life. She reminds us that one rarely knows how long we have on this planet, how much time we have with each other, how many more days there are to look around and navigate our oh-so complex, painful and beautiful world. 

But just like our choice to “be” with Rocket: to spend each day loving her, appreciating the not-so-tiny things that once were merely noticed - like the wag of a tail, the eager drop of the frisbee at my feet, her snore as I stroke her neck while she “watches” TV - these minuscule moments are no different than the additional gifts life offers me everyday. The sound of my daughter’s voice, the bowl of ripe strawberries my husband hands me, the boundless laugh of my granddaughter, the page of the book I turn, the wave of a neighbor, the smell of cut grass  . . .  This list is unending. Of course, only if we notice it. This is what Rocket teaches us. 

Ram Dass writes, “We're all just walking each other home.” Indeed. By foot, by paw, by heart.