It was a surreal dream that I could not escape from. The vet technician had just handed me what essentially was a small cookie tin. As I stared at the vessel that contained the earthly remains of my best friend, the vet tech asked me if I was okay. “It just seems so ironic that Erik loved cookies,” I stammered, “and he ends up like this.”
It had been several days earlier, on March 18th, that I had said my last goodbye to Erik, our seven-year-old Australian Shepard mix. It was a decision, and an act, that remains as fresh and painful a wound a year later as it was on that day. The fact that I lost him on his birthday, one day before my birthday, made it an even more poignant loss.
I adopted Erik from the Table Mountain Animal Center in 1996 after purchasing a house and finally having a back yard that could accommodate a dog. Erik was an energetic one-year old whose previous owners had relinquished him for unknown reasons. When I came across Erik in the shelter, he was a bedraggled pup with kennel cough and facial tumors. Something about his eyes, however, really caught my attention and I decided (or perhaps he decided for me) that we would make a good team. He had a look that seemed to say “Well I’ve been waiting for you and now, here you are. Let’s go!”
Once I got him home it began to dawn on me why his previous family may have made their decision. He was an inveterate chewer. During our first several months together, Erik tried his skills on furniture, art, clothing, tools - just about anything that he could get his mouth around and his teeth into. I tried all manner of training techniques, from yelling to pleading to bargaining. Nothing seemed to work. Pleading would simply make Erik cock his head in such a way that melted my anger, and bargaining just made me feel silly. Yelling resulted in Erik adopting what I called his “guilty performance,” where he would hang his head and look so sorrowful that I would burst out laughing and forget why I was angry. Eventually, Erik decided that I had gone through enough material loss (and had learned to be much less tied to material goods in the process) and simply stopped chewing stuff.
It was Erik’s wonderful ability to be a trickster, teacher and friend that quickly won my heart and bonded us in friendship. Erik, being the first dog to join my family, taught me how to interact with dogs, how training was a shared learning experience for both human and dog. It was Erik, through his gentle interaction with young puppies and his boisterous romping with older dogs, who taught how we should adopt to changing environments. And it was Erik, who proved to be the world’s most patient subject, who helped me awaken my passion for photography.
As I approach the one-year anniversary of Erik’s passing, I find that I am still working on his most difficult teaching: that of acceptance and letting go. In September of 2002, Erik was diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer that had invaded his lower jaw and throat. As the cancer continued its lethal progress, the hope for treatment quickly faded. Options included surgical removal of the lower jaw or a difficult regime of chemotherapy, neither of which held much promise for either cure or remission. Since Erik did not seem to be in any discomfort, I made the decision to forgo these treatments, opting instead for an alternative, non-invasive approach using Reiki and Chinese medicine. My greatest wish was to keep Erik’s quality of life as high as possible for as long as possible.
When Erik subsequently lost his eyesight, my already growing sense of guilt peaked. I began to berate myself. “If only I had done more for my friend,” I thought, “perhaps he could still see.” I felt as if this loss of vision may have been the final straw for Erik, that he would quickly succumb to the combined horror of cancer and blindness. However, Erik was ready with another teaching. My intense feelings of guilt created an almost crippling need to protect Erik from any perceived threat. I installed baby gates throughout the house in an attempt to keep Erik away from stairs and furniture. After several days of coming home from work to find Erik had jumped over the gates to greet me at the front door, my wife suggested that perhaps I try to take Erik out for a walk. “It’ll be good for both of you,” she said. Erik’s happy relief was almost audible. “I’m just blind,” he seemed to say, “not dead!” Erik quickly adopted to this new condition, adjusting his movement by listening to my footsteps and the jingling collar of our other dog, Yoshi.
We continued our walks through the Winter. Erik weaving slightly as he sought audible cues on when to turn and where to step. He quickly learned new commands such as “Uppy-up,” to help him negotiate curbs and stairs. I continued checking in with our vet who was amazed at Erik’s continued high spirits, and who even suggested that the cancer might just “stall out,” leaving my friend blind, but otherwise relatively healthy. I found my guilt slowly being replaced with a small seed of hope.
However, March of 2003 proved that this path was not one that we would travel. Erik’s condition quickly deteriorated around mid-March. He would only eat if I spoon-fed him, or allowed him to eat directly from my hand. By the morning of March 18th, he could no longer stand on his own and refused any offer of food. The moment that I had dreaded for six months had finally arrived…Erik was asking me to help him pass from this world.
On the afternoon of March 18th, my wife drove Erik and I to the vet’s office. Since Erik could no longer walk, I carried him from the house to the car and from the car to the office. The vet showed us into a private room where we were allowed time to just be with Erik. I found that I could not think of anything to say. The grief was almost crippling, and I found myself holding onto Erik for support. As the vet administered the drugs that would allow Erik to peacefully pass, he lifted his head and licked my arm as if to say “Steady on! Everything is going to be okay.” He then lowered his head and was gone.
Now I have memories. Memories that often bring smiles, and occasionally tears. And I have Erik’s ashes in a cookie tin, which I think he would find hysterically funny. Perhaps I’ll take them to his favorite mountain trail and spread them out where he loved to run. I’ll say a few words. “Thanks, friend! Thanks for being such a great teacher!” And I’ll leave him a cookie, just in case.