July 11, 2022: Losing My Heart Dog Jackson

One year ago today I woke up, went downstairs, and found Jackson splooted on the tile in the foyer. My heart sank the second I saw him. Well past his cute puppy sploot days, I knew that this was something else. As I looked in his epically soulful eyes, I saw the message he was sending me. “Mom, it’s time.” 

Jackson’s Melanoma Diagnosis

Nearly a year before, in August 2021, Jackson had been diagnosed with canine Melanoma. I had taken him to the vet for an ear hematoma. While there, I noticed that one of his toenails was yucky. I picked up his paw to look at it, and I thought it had cracked, probably while rough-housing with Tinkerbell. Unfortunately, a sample of the tissue from that toe indicated cancer. We made the decision to remove his toe and send it in for a biopsy, which confirmed that it was Melanoma. 

At first we thought for sure that we had caught the Melanoma early enough that it had not spread past the toe. We did x-rays and blood work, and took him to the University of Wisconsin at Madison for a 4-shot treatment of Oncept to destroy any rogue cells that might have grown beyond that single tumor on his toe. On our first visit for his first shot, we received the best possible news: Stage Clear. Feeling confident that he would be a cancer survivor, I added medicinal mushrooms to his diet, and we continued to go to Wisconsin once a month for his shots. 

However, on his last appointment for the 4th and final shot in December 2021, another round of x-rays confirmed that the cancer had spread to his lungs and the lymph node in the same leg where the tumor had been. It was just a tiny little nodule, too small to even make him eligible for a clinical study that the veterinary hospital at UW Madison was doing. The tumor in his lymph node was large enough for him to participate in the study if I wanted to do so. 

I had chosen UW Madison for his Oncept shot for a variety of reasons, the largest one being that I had read that they were doing comparative oncology studies in conjunction with veterans who had served in the Middle East and who were also fighting Melanoma. But when I learned that the study for which he was eligible would mean that he would have to be in total isolation in a boarding facility for two different seven-day periods because it involved injections of radioactive materials,  I decided I could not do that to him. 

If I could have explained to him why I was leaving him completely alone in a strange place, I might have. But you cannot explain these things to a dog. And if I had a guarantee that the treatment would work, and that it would have let him live a few more years, I would have enrolled him. But there were no guarantees, and no way to explain what was happening. I wished that I could borrow one of my husband’s hazmat suits and sleep on the floor next to him, even if it meant spending two weeks in a dog boarding facility on the hard cement. I would have happily done so to add even another day to his life. But I would not leave him alone. 

From December until June, we though that the mushrooms and his overall good lifestyle were working their magic. We went through each day with Jax being his normal self. But then in June, he stopped wanting to go upstairs with us, and was generally listless, so I took him to the vet. X-rays revealed that the cancer had spread all through his lungs. I remember my vet’s words, “He’s not ready [to be euthanized] today, but it will be soon.” And so, for the weeks between that vet appointment and the day I found him splooted on the floor, I had spent every second with him, canceling all appointments and other engagements. 

July 11, 2022

That morning, it took him some effort, but he got to his feet on his own, and accepted some chin scratches. I asked him if he wanted to go outside, and he dutifully trotted to the back door and followed Tinkerbell down the 2 steps to the grass, where he peed. Feeling a bit hopeful, we went back inside, and I offered him his usual post-potty break treats. He declined, and my heart sank again. Healthy Labrador retrievers never turn down a treat. 

I fed Tinkerbell and offered Jax some food, but he had zero interest in food or even a lick of peanut butter to take his medicines, another sign that he had taken a turn for the worse. Just like treats and food, healthy Labradors never turn down peanut butter. 

I debated giving him his pills the “old school” way of shoving them down his throat versus not giving them to him at all. Knowing that he was feeling bad and probably in pain, I decided to just give him his pain medicines and skip his holistic treatments like his mushroom capsules. I hated to give him his pills like that when he already was not doing well, but I hated the thought of him being in pain even more. 

With the potty break and medicine accomplished, Jax laid down while I fed Tinkerbell and made myself coffee. It was around 7 am on a Sunday, and I struggled with what to do. I knew it was time to make “the” call to the vet. My own vet would not open until Monday morning, and I struggled with whether I should take him to the emergency clinic near us or if he could wait without being in extreme pain or agony. It was one of the tens of thousands of times I wished my dogs could speak English. 

My firefighter husband was on shift, and I texted him to give him the update about Jackson. Although I am the primary decision maker on all things dog-related, I desperately just wanted someone to tell me what to do, or to tell me that I was doing the right thing. And what I found – as all of you who have been in this situation with their dog will tell you – is that nobody can make that decision for you. It is between you and your dog. And so, I decided to wait and see how he did, and that I would take him to the local emergency clinic if he took a turn for the worse. 

Jax spent the entire day sleeping on the floor, moving from spot to spot, from tile to carpet and then back again. We went outside for a few potty breaks, but he had zero interest in drinking or eating anything. I tried cupping some water in my hand, and even offering him to lick water off my fingers, and he would just turn his head away. 

It was a beautiful July day, dry, in the 90s, a few gentle white clouds drifting past. On a normal Sunday, I’d be in the pool, and then spend time out in the yard with the dogs while they played, and sniffed. Jax loved to graze in the grass, earning him the nickname my LabraCow. Tink loves to find little worms and bugs to scent herself. 

My favorite part of spending time outside with the dogs was when Jax would stand at the edge of the deck and survey the yard. I would sit next to him, watching the subtle twitches of his nose as he analyzed the different scents, wishing I knew what he was thinking and experiencing. Quoting The Lion King, I would tell him, “Jackson, everything the light touches is yours, my sweet boy” even though his land only went to the fence. Sometimes he would lay his big blocky head on my shoulder, and I would steal a kiss on his snout. 

Despite the beautiful day, we spent the entire day inside. Jax moved from tile to carpet, then back to the tile, and back once more to the carpet. I moved along with him, never crowding him or hanging on him, but always with him. As much as I wanted to lay on the floor next to him, holding him, he was not a dog who liked to be held. He loved to snuggle on his terms, and of all days to honor that, this was that day. I stole a few kisses, stroked his still shiny, silky coat, and rubbed his velvety ears, and sat with him through the entire day, knowing it was our last. 

I wrote in my book that we owe it to our dogs to keep our shit together at the end of their lives. Dogs hate for us to cry, or to be upset, and as the humans who promised to care for them, we have to push aside our own emotions during those last hours of their life and stay strong for them. And so, I stayed strong for him, all day, while I felt my heart start to split, slowly, with each passing hour. Trying to stay in the moment with him and not think of all of the things we would never do again was one of the hardest days of my life. 

Around 5 pm, Jax got up and walked a few feet from the carpet in our front room to the tile of the front hallway. I got up to follow him, wondering if he wanted to go outside. His feet slipped and he fell down, and as I went to help him, his body stiffened and he rolled to the side, all four legs sticking straight out, his jaw tense. Urine poured out onto the floor, his first “accident” since he was a small puppy. I knew he was having a seizure. 

One of our college aged daughters was the only other person home and I yelled for her to come to me. I don’t know exactly what I wanted her to do, but I knew I wanted help. We both knelt by Jackson and I gently held my hand on his hip, and he came out of the seizure pretty quickly. He was completely out of it, though, and so I left our daughter with Jax and called my husband. 

“You have to come home right now, I think Jackson is dying. He just had a seizure, he is still out of it, and we have to take him to the emergency clinic right now.”

In the entire time that my husband and I have been together, I have never asked him to come home from work. It’s just not something you do. As a fire-wife, the joke is that if something is going to go wrong, it’s going to be on their shift. And you just handle it. In the fire service, everyone is assigned to a particular role on a particular vehicle for that shift, and you cannot just have the person driving the firetruck or working in the back of the ambulance to come home because a pipe burst or the AC went out. But watching my heart-dog breathing what I knew were his last breaths in the front hallway justified making that call. 

Knowing it would take awhile for him to get things tied up at work and navigate traffic to get home, I had our daughter go and get some blankets. I tried to pick Jackson up myself, but in his current state he was too floppy for me to lift, and even though I knew he was dying, I didn’t want to cause him additional pain by picking him up wrong. We tried lifting him together with blankets, we tried to shimmy him onto a rolling cart that I used to use for vendor events, and nothing worked. Thankfully, my husband got home twenty minutes after I had called him. 

My husband picked him up and carried him to his truck. He had put down one side of the back seat so it made a platform, and left the other half of the seat as a seat so I could sit back there. Jax was breathing heavily, still with us, but very much disconnected from his usual state. I knew that when we got to the emergency clinic that it would be to end his suffering, not to save his life. 

Two-thirds of the way to the emergency vet clinic we stopped for a red light. I had been gently stroking Jax’s shoulder and ears the entire way, just talking to him quietly, telling him what a good boy he was, and how much we loved him. I had been teaching my dogs the word “love” over the years, saying it when we were spending quiet time together, or when we snuggled, or when I knew they felt happy and safe. And I hoped that Jax understood that we were there for him, and that he was loved. As we sat and waited for the light, I saw his facial expression tighten, and his body begin to stiffen and tremble. 

“He’s having another seizure,” I told my husband. 

And then, the seizure stopped. The light changed and my husband continued our drive, and I knew Jax had just died. 

“He just died.” I said. 

“Jax just died. He died. Jackson just died. Oh my god, he just died.” 

I kept saying it over and over, as we pulled into the clinic parking lot. 

“You wait here with him while I go and find out where we should go.” 

And so I sat with my Jax, still stroking his silky ear, still buckled into my seat. I sat and petted him as hot tears streamed steadily down my face. I think I was in shock. I knew he was gone, but was still holding it together for him, my promise to not ever cause him fear or pain. 

My husband came back to the truck and pulled us around to the side, where two young women came out with a metal cart on wheels. I got out while my husband picked up Jackson and put him on the cart. One of the women got out a stethoscope and listened for a heartbeat. 

“He is gone,” she said. 

I threw my arms around his beautiful, blocky head, and wailed an inhuman sound. In the weeks leading up to his death, the anticipatory grief had me envisioning what this moment would feel like, but nothing came close. I felt like part of me had died with him, right there in the back seat of our pickup truck at a stoplight on the way to the vet. 

I don’t know how long I stayed there, holding onto my dog, howling with grief. I was un-showered, still wearing the shorts and tank top that I’d slept in the night before, wearing my slippers as shoes, because I had not wanted to let Jax out of my sight for a minute. At least at some point in the day I’d thrown on a bra. Eventually I calmed down, and we followed the women as they wheeled Jax inside the clinic to handle paperwork. 

After making the decisions regarding cremation, my husband and I got to spend our last time with Jackson’s body. I remember when my mother passed away in 2005, I watched her take her last breath, and watched as her body changed from her being in it to it just being her earthly presence. You could tell the moment her soul left her body, and she was no longer there. And so I knew that my sweet boy’s spirit was no longer there, but I still needed to see him and touch him one last time. 

When he was alive, Jax was a loving dog but not an overly physical dog. He liked to snuggle on his terms, but did not like to be hugged for too long. And so, knowing that he was no longer there to be annoyed by me, I stroked his beautiful face, kissed his graying snout, and hugged his big sturdy body for so much longer than he would have tolerated when alive. 

Mourning and Celebrating Jackson’s Life

As with all losses, you have to go forward and live your life. In the last year, I have struggled with guilt over not making the call for his “final appointment” a few days earlier, so that he would have died peacefully instead of during a seizure. I have had friends tell me that Jax would never have faulted me for how things happened, that he knew he was a beloved, cherished part of my life. 

Experts say that if possible, you should have an in-home euthanasia and let your surviving dogs see and smell the one who has passed away, because they understand. Instead, I let Tink smell the shirt that I was wearing when I had hugged him for so long after his passing, hopping the scent would provide her with information. I know she was in mourning, because she stopped playing with her toys, stopped chewing her antlers, and just generally stuck by my side. 

The first days were a blur after Jax passed. But because you have to push through these horrific things anyway you can, bit by bit, Tinkerbell and I started taking more walks and mini adventures, just the two of us, and we started to heal. I took my time putting his things away. First his bowl, then I set aside his favorite toy for my memory box, and his collars for on top of his ashes. It took months for me to put away his harness and leash.

I was overwhelmed with love and gratitude from how many cards I received from other dog lovers who realized that a loss is a loss regardless of the species. That Jackson was never “just a dog” but a beloved family member, an integral part of my life. Some of my friends sent the most heartfelt memorial items that I see every day and smile thinking of my sweet boy.

But perhaps the best card came from our friend/breeder who told me that the same weekend that Jackson had passed away, she had bred one of her females and was expecting puppies to be born in the middle of September. We could be at the top of her list if we were ready, but she understood if we were not. 

We were ready. 

And so, as I write this, with tears streaming down my face, Puppy Quill is snoring at my feet. Tinkerbell is just a few feet away, also snoring. Quill is a few days shy of ten months old, and as opposite from Jax as you could get. Jackson is his great-uncle by blood, and there is a special connection knowing that Quill’s life began as a tiny little fertilized egg the same week that Jackson’s physical life ended. 

I still love to sit outside on the deck each night right where Jax and I used to sit, watching Quill play with Tink or amuse himself. Or lately, watching him tear the lattice off our deck and get into things he shouldn’t. And each night I speak to Jax, hoping he can hear me, “Thank you, Jax, for sending this boy to heal us.” Because while nobody will ever replace Jackson, Puppy Quill has helped the healing process by being his own unique dog.