I just found out that my dog has liver cancer. I’m really saddened by it. He’s a good dog. A friendly dog. And one that I’ve had for twelve years. I found him one day, when I went to buy fish food. There was an adopt-a-day thing happening, and since I like dogs so much, I sat down and pet a few of them. I even took this one other dog, a wheaton terrier, for a walk.
Then, well, there he was.
Jet black, undernourished and somewhat sullen (but not for long!), this dog (temporarily named “Zane”) called to me. He was all black except for a little part on his chest, and one of his toes, which were white. I said at his cage for a while, and he looked at me, and put his paw on my hand.
I took him for a little walk. Then I took him home.
I was scared of him when I bathed him… would he bite me? But no. He let me wash him off, and when he emerged, he was gorgeous. GORGEOUS.
When Maggie came home (she was my girlfriend, then), she was, um, shocked. After all, we were planning on moving to Brooklyn, and how would we find an apartment that allowed large mutts on premises.
We named him Carter.
The first morning he woke up in our bedroom, he was ecstatic. Clearly, he expected to be waking up in a cage somewhere, and instead he was home.
Twelve years passed. Children were born. We got cats. Another dog. We moved from the apartment in Brooklyn to a house in Brooklyn to a house in Westchester.
Without question, this dog has been my truest and loyal friend. He’s been with me through so much. And I’m so terribly, terribly sad at the prospect of his passing.
It could be a week, more likely a month. We’re supposed to go to Florida next week. I have told Maggie that I will be flying home if he seems sicker. I want to be with him when he goes. And if anyone has to put him down, it’s going to be me.
Damn, I love you Carter. You big, garbage-dumping pain in the ass.