Espen

"Give sorrow words. The grief that does not speak whispers 

the o'er fraught heart, and bids it break." ~ Shakespeare

Perhaps I should have seen God's plan entering my life when my good friend Jeff Riel presented me with a book about a month ago. It's titled, "The Art of Racing in the Rain." I'd never heard of it, but have since seen it on the bestseller lists and hear it might even be made into a movie.

Basically it's "Marley and Me" as a drama. And I cried my eyes out throughout the course of the novel. That's really nothing new. I've been known to weep at a particularly touching episode of Gray's Anatomy. Whatever, it's who I am. I even started bawling watching "Eight Below" on a flight one time because I hated seeing the dogs being left behind in Antarctica. Jill said passengers around me were a bit concerned.

So how God, and Jeff for that matter, knew I needed a book like this was beyond me. I mean I cried reading it, but surely I wouldn't have to face such serious issues with my own dog. Espen was invincible right? He was going to outlive the sun with his exuberance. How did I get to this point so quickly when at his checkup in May the doctors were telling us he looked like he was closer to a three-year-old instead of the ten-year-old body he was inhabiting?

About four weeks ago, he began relieving himself in the house; odd behavior for a dog that never did that. After a few days of this we took him in, and the vet found blood in his waste. We thought it was potentially a bacterial infection but several medications, re-checks, continued urinating in the house showed it had moved beyond that. After these last tests, our doctor said it was potentially bladder cancer but they wouldn't know for sure until they'd sedated him and run some tests. At that point, we were faced with a hardship. Having to put a price on our dog. The tests alone were not cheap and we had no clue what the treatment would be when they were done and how long it might prolong his life. So it was with HEAVY, HEAVY hearts that we had Espen put to sleep today.

The 45 minutes at the vet this afternoon were some of the most painful in my life. Jill and I began talking about this possibility a week or so ago, mentally preparing ourselves for this journey. The painful part is that there were no outward signs of decay. He still ran and jumped like he normally did. It wasn't due to old age, it was just something we couldn't protect him from. Perhaps that's why I feel so guilty. With no obvious outward signs I felt like I had betrayed him with this decision.

Growing up we always had cats in our house and over the course of time I remember four being put to sleep. Maybe because I was a kid, and ignorant to those sorts of feeling, it never affected me. Besides, the cats were really the pets of my parents. But Espen. He was MY dog.

We got him, literally a week after we got home from our honeymoon. And maybe that's why his passing is so hard for me. All of our memories as a couple, and now as a family, have included him. I remember the first night we got him Jill was adamant he was going to sleep in his crate downstairs and not in our room upstairs. Fifteen minutes after we went to sleep, he jumped on our bed and we looked at each other incredibly. Turns out I had forgot to latch the roof of his cage properly and he had found a way out. I returned him back to the firmly secured cage, and 30 minutes of whining on his part later, Jill reluctantly relented, and our bed has slept three for most of the past decade. How do you let go of someone with the tenacity like that to be by your side.

His most precocious trait was his refusal to be contained. At each of the three houses we've owned, they've been "Espen-proofed." Until he would escape, again and again, to show us where the breeches in our defense lied.

Friends giggled at his flying leaps off the back of our couch and his determined demeanor at sniffing through all luggage. I laughed at his attempts to hump other dogs, his romps through snowy backyards, and even his 'morning breath'. I hated that he barked every time the doorbell rang or, for godsake, a six-year-old would dare use the sidewalk in front of our house. I wished he was more of a lap dog, instead he preferred to just be in the same room with you, just beyond arms reach mostly. But god he was a great dog.

When Jillian traveled for work, he was my security blanket. The soothing force of the room, the quiet protector, someone to 'talk' to while she wasn't around, and his presence calmed me on her nights away.

And for the past two years I have watched him go from bemused indifference to tolerant of Megan as she put her stamp on our household. He was extremely patient with her, even in the last few months, when she would pull his tail, step on him accidentally when climbing off the couch, or in some cases, blatantly sitting on him. I will remember her determination to take him for walks despite the fact he weighed more than her. I laugh thinking about how she learned where his treats were and loved being able to give them to him on her own when he entered the house. I was excited for her to have memories of him as her "first dog" and now I fear those memories will only exist in my memories and in our photos.

I know all families deal with this at some point, and others of you have experienced this too and gotten through it, and I will too. In the immediate aftermath it's just hard to comprehend the why and the guilt that I feel in this whole process. I'm saddened that Megan won't remember him in time, and yet I'm hopeful she won't ask too many questions of his disappearance because, honestly, I'm not sure what to say. In time I'm quite sure we'll get another dog. When, I don't know. Probably when Megan starts begging for one. And I know the next dog will share some of Espen's qualities but not all. And time will eventually dull the pain in my head, in my heart, and in my tears.

We are blessed to have such supportive friends, like Jeff, who had no idea the meaning behind the book when he offered it to me, of animal-loving parents who have promised repeatedly that this was the right thing to do. I know it is. But at the moment all I can do is grieve for the loss of a truly great friend who was taken too soon.

My last words to him as our teary faces pressed together were that I loved him beyond words, that I pray he understands and forgives me of this sin against him, and that I am capable of doing enough right in my lifetime so I can see him again. May he rest in peace.