I recognize that smell. It has a distinct odor. It is the smell of death knocking and it calls me close. Its source? An ear tumor.

The cone of shame and his head wrapped in an ace bandage has kept inquisitive paws out but it is not a long term solution. His head tips to a side. He shakes his head. One ear no longer stands up straight. He wants the mass gone. We want it gone. We call the vet.

Two surgeries later, we have more time, but also the looming questions of how do we know he has had enough? What will be our signs? We don’t have definitive tests to confirm his actual diagnosis, but we all know. It is cancer and it has come back. Time is running out for our dear loyal canine family member, Victor. There will be no more surgeries. He seems to understand and we do what we can to keep him comfortable. Warm compresses. Loving up on him whenever we can. Special nourishing meals and time outside on the earth. Cancer is hard. Hard on everyone. We watch his spirits. He doesn’t want to burden us. His eyes say so much. He paws my legs to get my attention. Is he is hurting? What do I need to know? Those difficult conversations have begun.

10 years—mostly happy times, a few hair raising times of breaking loose out of the backyard and terrorizing neighbors with his growl; his back hairs on end. Me, racing out half dressed —screaming his name into peoples front yards and through the cottonwoods and lilac bushes that line the street praying he won’t attack. He is fine with people but other dogs bother him. A lot. I’d eventually catch him and bring him back but boy can he can run. I have chased him around the neighborhood way to many times for my liking. He doesn’t know the consequences of his actions. In his innocence, he has just found freedom. I do though. One escapade cost us $5,000 and a host of neighborhood drama. It hasn’t been an easy journey. I barely remember the number of sleeping pads, couch cushions, leashes, and shoes he chewed to pieces and the backyard chickens he ate and and and ……. funny how that works.

Victor is a love mix that we rescued from the humane society at 8 weeks old. He would never hurt anyone in the safety of his home space, but outside the familiar edges of our yard, he is in uncharted territory and he is unpredictable. He blames Xena (his happy go lucky soul sister who is part boxer/part lab). She is the ring leader and he says his motivation for going along with her escape plans are well intentioned. He just wants to protect her.  Sweet Sweet Victor. How can I stay mad?

Victor is a teacher for me. In life and as he nears transition. An evolved spiritual soul. A protecter. Misunderstood at times. A big hearted softie. Always there for me and for the boys.

I could never take him on walks—he pulled too much, or let him off leash. In my care, he got time in the spacious backyard chasing squirrels, looking at the chickens and rolling around in who knows what. He loved chasing the hose on hot summer days. But he could never be left unattended which was never fully relaxing for anyone.

I wake these days to the pungent odor of rot and decay. I notice heavier breathing, I feel for signs that the growing mass in his throat and mostly on the right side of his face is affecting his life. His hearing has just gone. I grieve. I am preparing myself. He is preparing us too in his own way. It is a sacred dance of give and take; here and not here. He retreats into himself more and more now. He wags his tail. He worries about me/us. His spirit and appetite for life continue to be there but I know. He knows. He doesn’t want to disappoint. We share a different more subtle way of communication. I just hold his head in my hands. No words. He knows I am there with him.

Tending to him in his end of life days and honoring my feelings is what helps me manage the waves of sadness. He has given me permission to use herbs for bleeding and homeopathic remedies to compliment western medicine. He has helped me to find the most compassionate traditionally trained vet and be an integral part of his health care decision making. He tolerates me cleaning out his wound. I have learned so much about myself in his presence.

I sense he has always felt responsible for the happiness of the family. He likes to be in the middle of the action, up on the couch during football games, running after thrown footballs and baseballs in the backyard. He is smart. I feel he senses the upcoming changes. He doesn’t want to be left behind.

There are things we can control and things we can’t control I find myself whispering to him and you have taken on so much for the family, you can let go now. You are loved. Thank you for your service and your love. We probably have just a few weeks—maybe a few months—lets continue to make the most of our remaining time together.

And, I will meet you again across that rainbow bridge in time with a large bone and some extra chicken kibble my friend. You can rest in that. Thanks for a great ride!