It’s here again: August 29th. It is one of the happiest dates and one of the saddest dates in my life. On August 29, 2008, Flint officially came to live with us. On August 29, 2017, I woke up to the cytology report from Penn saying that he had little sarcomas all over his abdomen, and I ran, retching, into my bathroom. I don’t know when Flint’s actual birthday was, but we arbitrarily made it August 29, 2007, since he was about a year old when we met him. He would have been 15 today, by that birthday.
Last night, I was on the couch with Rookie, looking up at the photo of Flint on the fireplace mantel, just thinking about him, my time with him, how much I miss him and that it’s been a little while since I cried over him. (Don’t worry- writing this post has remedied that.) Sometimes, I wish we had tried to spend a couple more weeks with him at the end, but then I think how ridiculous it is to put myself through that. He was dying. He was barely eating. He was developing all kinds of little skin bumps that I didn’t bother to investigate because what good could’ve come of that by then? He had fallen over on a walk, needing to be carried home, and on the day we called it for him, he really didn’t want to get out of bed for his walk. I had always said that was my line in the sand for him. He loved his walks more than anything else, and I said if he ever didn’t want to go, he had lived one day too long. Yes, he did eventually get up and go, but he just wasn’t himself. We had gone to the park the day before, just Flint, Justin and myself, and Christine had gotten him to eat a little Chinese food the night before. We’d had a good, full day with him the previous day, and there’s a lot to be said for that.
I wonder sometimes, if I could have asked him, if he agreed with my decisions for him. Sometimes I worry that he didn’t and that he resents me for it, if you can resent someone after you’re dead. I hate those thoughts. I’d like to believe that he doesn’t/wouldn’t/couldn’t because that just doesn’t fit with him and because he knew that I loved him more than anything and only wanted the best for him. I never, ever wanted him to know an ounce of pain or suffering. I never wanted him to not enjoy his life or his time with us. I ony tried to make the best decisions I could for him with the information that I had at any given time.
It was so, so hard. It was hard to watch him feel sick, to find his splenic mass, to take him to surgery for it, to have the sample squashed by FedEx and have them not bother to let us know when they just tossed it in the trash, to monitor monthly for any recurrence and then to see those little nodules appear. It was hard to watch him not really respond the way I had hoped to chemo. I cried daily when he didn’t want to eat. From August 29, 2017, I knew I was just waiting for the best friend I’ll ever have to die. It was hard to try and keep living like life was normal when it wasn’t at all. It was hard to say, “Good-bye,” to make that call and to push that plunger. I didn’t have to do the last part. I could have asked any of my colleagues, and they would have done it for me. I needed to though. He was my heart and my soul, and I was responsible for him and anything that happened to him, always, in life and in death. I felt that I owed it to him to be the one, even if it hurt like nothing else.
I don’t cry nearly as often as I did. The dates- August 29th, December 30th, May 12th and May 16th- don’t hurt as intensely as they once did. Life goes on, afterall, and supposedly time heals all wounds. I still feel them though. I still think of him on all of those dates and so many days in between them. Any time I travel, I bring a piece of him with me in the necklace made from some of his ashes. When I’m not wearing it, the necklace rests on my bedside table. I miss him on every hike I take, every visit to the mountains. I miss him pressed against me sometimes in the middle of the night, especially if my stomach hurts. Some mornings, driving to work, I get teary just because he’s gone.
I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: I still lack the words to give this dog the tribute he deserves. There just aren’t any. I’ve read so many beautiful memorials to so many wonderful dogs over the years, and I get a little jealous that these friends and colleagues can get it right for their beloved companions. I don’t know though: maybe they feel like I do, that it’s still inadequate in some way. I’ll always feel that I failed Flint in some way, because I didn’t find his cancer sooner, because in the end, I couldn’t save him. I’ll always hate that he died of this unclassified sarcoma at only 10 because I wanted so much more time with him. I tell myself that he deserved more good years than he got. I can only hope that he felt he actually got the perfect life.
On the other hand, as much as I miss Flint and wish he was still here, celebrating 14 years with us and 15 years on the planet today, I also know we would not have Magic if he was. I’m glad she’s here in our lives, thundering around the house making butt-shaped holes in the walls and knocking everything off the coffee table with her floof. It’s a bit conflicting- to want him to be here so much, but to know that Magic is exactly where she’s supposed to be, that she needs us and is the dog we need now. Magic is not, and never will be, Flint, but I love her for her and look forward to, hopefully, many more years of adventures with both her and Rookie. On this day, though, I miss my best guy a bit harder than most of the others.
“If there are no dogs in heaven, then when I die, I want to go where they go.” ~ Will Rogers
