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When the phone rang, I checked the caller ID.
The vet's office.
My dog, Rocky, and I were home alone, so I hurried to answer the phone.
"Ms. Spenceley?"
A call from the vet himself.
"I have Rocky's test results," he said.
With a red pen and a pounding heart, I grabbed for a sheet of paper.
"Go ahead," I said.
"Rocky has cancer." Very highly malignant.
"How long does he have?"
Six to 12 months.
Rocky, my silver dapple dachshund, was dying.
To look at him then — last August — you'd never know Rocky was 12 years old or sick. He chased his ball like a puppy, faithfully begged for people food and lived to show us he loved us. He could catch popcorn in his mouth. Had a mild obsession with oatmeal. Would eat anything except for raisins, grapes and olives.
When we got him, I was a fifth-grader at Hernando Christian Academy in Brooksville. He was a runt who weighed a pound and a half. Together, we grew. I became an adult, and he became a trickster who got good at getting us to leave our food unattended.
Once, I caught him chewing gum. Another time, I caught him sucking on a cough drop. He was a canine comedian. An intent listener. A fighter.
Halfway through his life, he won back his ability to walk after some herniated discs took it from him. When he had six months to live, he fought for seven.
He made it to my birthday in November, and to his in December. He made it to Christmas. But as spring approached, Rocky stopped running. When he walked, he limped. When we picked him up, he whimpered. Eventually, he rarely wagged his tail. The inevitable became probable. That's when I started to crumble.
While home alone with him in Spring Hill one afternoon in March, I made sure he couldn't see me when I cried. How, I wondered, would I ever survive his death? Even if I did, how would I learn to cope?
I imagined coming home through a door without him there to greet me. I thought about being home alone — alone. I thought about a day with no one to follow me to the fridge or sit at my feet or beg for a bite of my breakfast.
I thought about me.
Then I had an epiphany: I should think about him.
Rocky didn't need a human who avoided him. He didn't need one who felt as if his death would be worse for her than it would be for him. He needed companionship. He needed care. When he stopped walking on March 21, he needed to be carried. When I focused on being the person he needed when he needed me, I could finally cope.
It wasn't easy, but being with Rocky in his final phase of life was part of my purpose. A privilege. In it, I found peace. And on March 22, Rocky's last day, I said goodbye.
And I thanked him — for 13 years of being what I needed: my silver dapple dachshund.
Arleen Spenceley can be reached at (813) 909-4617 or aspenceley@sptimes.com.
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