Timothy

Any normal person would be worried, terrified even.  But perhaps ignorance truly is bliss.  Or, perhaps fear and pain are all in our head.  Molson marched into the Vet’s office like he was visiting old friends.  Sniffing around for anyone new since his last visit, looking to see what might have moved and if there was anyone new to say hi to.  By a stroke of luck, the Vet Tech/Anesthesiologist ended up being Kristi, our neighbor from a few years ago.  Molson remembered her and didn’t show the anxiety he sometimes displayed at other vet visits.  After a few initial checks and discussions, Kristi took him into the back room to get him comfortable and ready for surgery the following day.  It was difficult leaving him that night, but I trusted the team to take good care of him.  Kristi was great about keeping me posted about the progress before, during, and after the surgery.

Surprisingly, Molson was back to himself the day following the surgery.  My daughter Chloe and I went to pick him up and we could hear him barking in the back.  He was barking the same way he would when he was ready to come inside after a few laps around the yard.  It was that high pitched, get-your-attention kind of bark; not a painful yelp or a moan.  We knew he was ready to go home.  As one dog was released we could see him behind the glass of a kennel standing on a bed.  It was the same Molson I dropped off.  His tail was wagging.  Perhaps he saw us, or heard Chloe and I talking in the lobby.  Whatever it was, he was ready to come home.

As we drove Molson home, he wasn’t mad that I took him there to experience pain.  He wasn’t mad that we left him there for 2 days.  He wasn’t mad that he had to wear the cone of shame or that his face felt funny.  He was just happy to see us.  His tail was wagging and he was ready to go home.  Through the following days of medicine and cleaning wounds and caring for him as he recovered, it became apparent that dogs are tougher than most people I know.  He didn’t feel sorry for himself.  He didn’t wine or expect us to wait on him hand and foot.  He wanted to come to work with me again.  He wanted to follow the kids around the yard.  He wanted to play in the snow.  He wanted to hang his head out the window as we drove even though the cone wouldn’t fit.  It became clear that Molson was enjoying each moment as it came and not worried about what just happened or what might happen.  He was truly living for today.  Maybe I should too.

For Thanksgiving, I headed to Nags Head, NC to visit my family.  They are doing one of those modern “working retirement” things where they move to the ocean and find jobs they enjoy.  My mom owns a general store called The Stock-Aide and my dad mostly plays guitar at local venues.  Its a slower pace of life by the water that I enjoy.  Molson always loves to go.  He sees me packing and perks up.  As soon as I say “Wanna go to the beach?” he’s halfway in the truck.  This trip was much like many of the other trips.  We spent a few days by the ocean and a few by the sound.  The big waves of the ocean still don’t seem to deter Molson from jumping in the ice cold water for a tennis ball or a stick.  In fact, he looks at me like I’m crazy because I’m standing in the sand trying to stay dry as the cool reality of November in North Carolina blows.  The dunes on the sound offer more protection from the wind and slightly warmer water as Molson plays with his cousins (I guess that’s what you would call them).  My sister has a 1 year old Golden Doodle named Gunner that reminds me of Molson in his younger years as he runs in every direction seemingly without purpose.  My brother has a small chihuahua/pomeranian mix, named Belle that only wants to get her feet wet.  My parents have a Sheltie named Ranger that paces up and down the beach keeping tabs on the entire pack, barking when one of the dogs goes beyond where he feels is appropriate.

In many ways, this trip was much like any of the others we had made to visit family.  However, during this trip, a bump was forming on Molson’s nose.  It didn’t seem like much at first.  It kind of looked like a bit of a snarl and we joked about him having an “Elvis Lip.”  As time passed, the lump continued to grow.  It became apparent that he should see the Vet.  As many pet owners have experienced, the Vet needed to run several tests and do X-rays and blood tests and biopsies, etc.  Each test failing to provide anything conclusive.  We tried numerous anti-biotics and anti-fungals hoping it was just some type of infection.  Meanwhile the lump continued to grow.

The kids were curious but only remotely concerned as they have never dealt with serious illness or anything on a personal level yet.  They joked that Molson must have sneezed and part of his brain shot down to his nose.  So from then on, we referred to the lump as his “Nose brain.”  It seemed to help lighten the mood as the conversation moved from medication to extraction.  On March 7th, Molson went under the knife.

The phone rings.  I recognize the number.  The conversation I was having at work fades into white noise as I step out of the room.  I swallow the lump in my throat and pick up….”Hello?”…

Twelve years ago I was blessed with the best friend imaginable.  My buddy, Mr. Molson.  He has been with me through the highs and lows of life.  Dating, marriage, kids, college, divorce, custody battles, a new job, a new home, vacations, and much more.  Everyday for 12 years, he has been by my side sharing this journey of life.

Mr. Molson has taught me many things throughout these years that only a dog can.  He has taught me that sometimes we all just need a quiet corner for a nap.   He has taught me when someone (in his case the kids) is getting on your nerves it is best to just walk away until things calm down.  Often when you return it’s like it never happened at all.  He has taught me the importance of living in the moment.  Whether that means enjoying a game of frisbee or a simple walk around the neighborhood, Molson never seemed concerned about yesterday or tomorrow.  He taught me to remain curious about the world (even if you get sprayed by a skunk).    He taught me to always show people how much you missed them.  Even if they only walked outside to get the mail.  He has taught me that unconditional love is real.

I hold the phone tight to my ear as the veterinarian tells me the lab results have come back from Molson’s recent surgery.  “I have bad news” she says.  “It’s cancer.”