Photo credit: Megan Saucier
I had no idea it would be our last car ride together. What was about to happen hit me like a bus I never saw coming.
It was like the line in the song Everyone's Free to Wear Sunscreen:
"The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind, the kind that blindside you at 4 PM on some idle Tuesday..."
It all started a couple of days earlier. Daisy, our beloved and treasured yellow Lab, had neck pain. Our veterinarian wasn't too worried and thought it was likely a flare-up of some bad discs in her neck. He recommended strict rest and anti-inflammatory medication.
But she didn't get better; instead, she got worse. She was having trouble walking. It looked like every step she took hurt. She stopped and shook in pain. My partner and I felt sick with worry.
That idle Tuesday, I loaded her in the car and raced her to see a neurologist at a specialty hospital. She recommended an MRI and said, "Well, it could be a ruptured disc or arthritis... or I mean, it could even be a tumor... but I doubt it."
For the price of a small, used Honda, we proceeded with the MRI. The doctor said she'd call me in a few hours. When my phone later rang that afternoon, the neurologist's nurse told me to pick up Daisy but would only reveal the scan results when I arrived.
"If they're telling me to come get her, it must not be too serious," I thought. "It must be fixable, and I can take her home. Thank goodness!"
I felt a sense of relief. Our precious yellow 80-pound Labrador, who made us laugh each day, would be OK. We weren't sure how we'd ever live without her. Our home would be void of the pure and utter joy and mischief that inhabited her soul. You could see it in her eyes. There was no mistaking it.
Daisy was nearly 12. I adopted her from All Sato Rescue when she was a year old.
She ended up in the rescue after a crummy backyard breeder dumped her at an animal shelter in Puerto Rico. A shelter worker told the breeder their facility was full, and they'd have to euthanize her. He didn't seem phased and paid the $60 fee.
Shortly after he left, volunteers from the All Sato team walked in and saw her—a beautiful, young, yellow Labrador tied up to the front desk. They were coming to pick up smaller street dogs, not a giant Daisy-sized pooch. They didn't have room in their van for her or even large enough crates back at their facility.
But they could not leave her there to be killed. They decided to leap and hope the net appeared. The net did appear; they worked it out. I will be forever grateful for the risk they took.
I was one of 20 applicants who applied to adopt Daisy and was lucky enough to get her.
I'm so thankful for the rescue's hard work. The dog that jerk discarded became the light of our lives. She has been the greatest gift we could have ever received.
Of course, the final decision to adopt Daisy also rested on Solly, my grumpy, rescued black Lab. According to his DNA test, he was a Sheepdog trapped in a Labrador's body. It explained a lot. But he needed to like her. He was picky when it came to his dog pals.
The rescue flew Daisy up to a shelter in New Hampshire. When Solly and I drove up to meet her, he was somewhat indifferent about her. But Daisy instantly adored him. I figured indifferent would do. I loaded them all into my Jeep, and off we went.
Daisy turned out to be a ray of sunshine that brought out a loving, playful side in Solly. She loved him so much that when Solly learned how to open the door to our condo and escape, she followed him into the common area hallway.
Daisy, unsupervised, managed to create so much chaos we got letters from the condo association attorney and had quite a headache. The trouble those two got into could fill an entire book that might be titled "How Our Dogs Got Us Evicted."
She clearly had the eating disorder PICA—where one compulsively eats non-edible items.
Over the years, while home alone, she broke out of repeated crates and ate oven mitts, a bra, a wine glass, leashes, collars, the tips of gloves, a cheeseboard, pepper spray, and oven knobs off the stove. When we bought childproof knob covers, she ate those! We finally removed the oven knobs and kept them in a cabinet.
While hiking one day, she found and ate a neon purple rubber fishing worm lure (not the hook, thank goodness) which she later pooped out, intact, in front of an entire beach full of people and picnickers.
But wait, it gets better because the worm got STUCK coming out. I had to run over with a poop bag and try to pull it from her rear end. But it was rubber, so it kept "giving." It was like a tug-of-war between her butt, the worm, and me.
As I fought the battle, determined to get the worm out, I could hear gasps of horror from all the people sitting on the beach. Children were screaming, "Mom! What is going on with that dog? Why does she have a big purple worm in her butt?"
When Daisy realized what was happening, she tried to run from the stuck worm. I had to chase her down, hold her, and pull it out. Then, I sheepishly walked off the beach with my tail between my legs as the onlookers pretended to look away.
My partner and I cherished her every single day. We knew she was ours for a limited time on this earth, but we never thought the day would come when she would not be with us. We could never even think about that pain. We had just lost Solly two years before.
Photo credit: Dog River Lodge at Bark Hallow daycare
But last idle Tuesday, just after 4 PM, I walked into a dimly lit exam room where the neurologist pulled up Daisy's MRI scan results and uncomfortably said, "These situations are never easy..."
I knew I was about to be blindsided.
My heart started racing.
I Facetimed my partner so he could hear the doctor speak as I felt like that bus was bearing down on me.
The neurologist pulled up a picture from the MRI that showed a giant, evil, monstrous mass eating into her spine.
I tried not to hyperventilate.
"It is a tumor," the neurologist said. "I'm so sorry we weren’t expecting that. There are no treatment options. It cannot be removed because of its location in her spinal cord."
The room started spinning.
"You could try radiation to shrink it, but it won't go away," she continued, trying to sound calm. "That would only buy her a couple of weeks — but Daisy would be in pain."
I started shaking.
I attempted to hold back tears and the sound of ugly cries but failed miserably. When the staff left the exam room, I nearly threw up in the sink.
After everything Daisy ate and processed through her steel-lined stomach and all the times we worried about each object she ingested or her bad discs, cancer got her in the end.
My partner and I then made the right but the most heartbreaking decision you ever make as pet parents: we decided to let her go immediately and be free of that pain. We never brought her home. My partner raced to the animal hospital to be with us. We couldn't stand the thought of her suffering. The neurologist told us we made the right choice.
As we drove home without her that evening, I thought I would never feel happiness again. I'd never laugh again. I could not see life beyond the unbearable agony we were in.
Looking back, I can't believe Daisy hid the pain she must have been in for so long. She had been her cheery, spunky self even the week before.
I often thought if Daisy could write me an email update from over the Rainbow Bridge, she'd say something like, "Dear Mom, I have my best friend Solly back. We'll make room on the recliner for you one day. Please don't be sad anymore. We have no more pain. Oh! You can eat as much as you want in Heaven and not puke! It's fantastic."
Megan Saucier, who runs Sandy Trails K9 Adventures, captured the incredible picture of Daisy that headlines this memorial and wrote as a tribute to her: "Daisy was a crazy senior, with the no Fs left to give mentality which always kept us laughing."
As the weeks went on after Daisy died, we began to feel less like zombies. Though for a while, we only laughed when we retold Daisy stories that usually ended in chaos, an emergency room visit, or seeking legal advice.
When I think of how it all happened, I believe it's better I didn't see this bus coming. Even if we somehow caught Daisy’s bone cancer in her spinal column early, there weren’t great treatment options.
We would have spent the last year crying, upset, and worrying. Instead, we spent that last year trying to make every day with her the best: Swimming, hiking, eating ice cream, and just letting Daisy be Daisy until that last car ride we took together.
Love you, Daisy. Thank you for being you. You are one in a million!
May we always live like Daisy: Filled with joy, always ready for adventure and mischief, with no Fs to give, even until the very end.
