Cancer

The Story of Two Boxers

I am not sure if there is a scarier word in the English language than cancer. Death would come close but there is finality to death, a recognition of transition from this world to the next. Cancer brings death to mind but with the implications of struggle and slow decline. It is the disease where the treatments are often perceived as nearly as dire as the illness, with the underlying threat that, even if successfully treated, it might return. There are many doctor’s appointments postponed because of the fear that word might come up in the diagnosis. Unfortunately, I have know more folks in the last year that have heard that diagnosis than I have known in my entire life.

Our pets don’t escape this harsh disease either. I sit writing this as we prepare to take our boxer, Brody, to the vet for treatment. He is our “Old Soul” and has been his entire life with us. While boxers are known to be a high energy breed, Brody has been the exception. He is exuberant is his greetings and loves to play but affection is his calling card. He was diagnosed on Monday but we knew what we would hear before we walked through the door of the vet’s office. We had traveled this road before.

Roxie was our first boxer and was our constant companion for the first half of our marriage. She was more typical of the breed in terms of energy but she would always end the evenings laying on one of our laps as we watched television. In that way, she was more affectionate than Brody, who is often all elbows when trying to share your lap. I still smile when I think of how excited she would be when we would get home, initially jumping up a little bit and then “going into the ‘u’” as we called it. It looked like she was chasing her tail, just going in circles in pure jubilation, her big brown eyes never leaving us, a stubby tail constantly wagging. We would actually greet her with the exhortation of “go into a ‘u’, Roxie! Go into a ‘u’!”

Boxers are such a happy breed and Roxie epitomized that joy and happiness – although she would definitely go into defensive mode if she felt her family was being threatened in any way. A very athletic dog, she loved to play rough and enjoyed jumping straight up in the air and trying to body slam me. If you threw her a treat, she would always catch it. No perfect throw needed. Poor Brody, while still athletic, lacks that coordination. The treats often bounce off his nose and, if the toss isn’t perfect, there is no chance!

Then, to my wife’s dismay, there were football games. Back when I was enthusiastic about watching football, Roxie would watch the games with me. Actually, I don’t think Roxie watched the games or cared about the games but she sure loved to help me celebrate when the home team scored a touchdown! I would throw my arms in the air and yell,”Touchdown!” and she would leap up and tear down the hallway barking like the Devil himself was at our door. Some professional teams have canons or fireworks when their team scores. Our household had Roxie.

In 2016, I lost my last corporate job. It came with a nice severance package and I had sensed it was coming so I was not devastated or worried. At least, that is what I told myself. While I said I wasn’t even going to look for my next job for three months, I started in two and it took six. There was still golf and other activities going on and I was trying to write but found it difficult. I am recognizing now that there are definite seasons of life, a time when things are supposed to happen and a time when they are not. That wasn’t the right season of life for my writing. I did not find myself inspired and I found myself working too hard for very little output. So, if you haven’t read between the lines, I was finding myself depressed. The headhunters weren’t calling, the resumes weren’t drawing attention, and the words weren’t finding their way to the page. Roxie was with me for that journey. Every time I stood up in the office, tearing myself away from the job hunting or fruitless typing, she stood up. When I walked to the refrigerator, she walked with me. If I sat down in the recliner to take a nap, she was cuddled up in my lap. I sat in the back yard, drinking a beer and pondering the future, she was at my feet. She was my “Little Angel” during what were some dark days.

Then, Cancer called her name. She had a lump right under her tail and it had grown fairly large before we noticed it. I remember the tears welling in my eyes when my wife pointed it out. I knew what it was but could not vocalize it. We, of course, called the veterinarian and made an appointment. I never said the word over that next week. I don’t think either of us did but we knew what it was. Cancer. For Roxie, there wasn’t any operation or treatment. The diagnosis was final and grim. They could make her comfortable for a few more months but, in the end, her body would not be able to rid itself of waste.

The tears still come when I think of lying on the floor with her when that final day came, the day the vet came to our house to inject death in a quiet, dignified, and private way. There was no tough guy, no machismo. There was just a broken man sobbing uncontrollably, saying his final good-bye to an old friend.

Thankfully, the prognosis for Brody is much better. The location of his cancer is operable and he should be able to live out his days without concern. We know, though, that cancer never guarantees it won’t return. That knowledge and quiet fear will lurk in the shadows of our minds when we pick him up today. As I sit here with the morning coffee, thinking about Brody I can sense a presence at my feet, the always comforting spirit of Roxie.

Roxie, Ready to Go

Brody Post Surgery