My dog Sunny passed away on Monday. He was two weeks shy of his fourteenth birthday.
I met Sunny shortly before my thirteenth birthday. Weeks of research, manipulation, and begging had paid off, and I had convinced my parents that I should get a Golden Retriever puppy. After looking at some newspaper ads, we contacted a veterinarian whose dog had recently given birth to a litter of puppies. By the time we scheduled a meeting, only two dogs were left. Sunny and I bonded quickly; I remember how he kept untying my shoes by tugging at my shoelaces. After being introduced to his mother, we went into the car, clutching Sunny so he wouldn't run into the street.
From the beginning, he was a playful puppy. It was a joy to run around and play with him. My sister was afraid of Sunny at first, so the two of us ganged up on her, but Sunny won her over very quickly. His presence was something we could always look forward to after school.
However, if Sunny was a sweet puppy, he was an even better dog; through the time he spent with us, he truly came to care for us and know our habits. Though his training was very rudimentary, he was considerate, and could somehow understand what we needed. For a dog, Sunny was remarkably astute, and adjusted well to human society. My mom always swore that he understood English, a claim she never made of any of her other dogs, and my dad would joke that he truly thought of himself as a human. He rarely barked, except when he was overexcited or genuinely needed help. He had a real sense of right and wrong, and would look guilty if he had done something disappointing, even if it wasn't really his fault. Even without training, he wouldn't eat food that was placed on the floor unless he was told he could. He grew morose when he saw suitcases in the hallway, and jubilant when a Christmas tree came through the door.
Sunny loved celebrating Christmas with us. During his first year as a member of the family, he was let outside before we started opening presents, but he was too curious about what was going on inside, and stayed by the window until he was let in. Over the years, he got his own presents, which Chrissie helped him open, along with a stocking of his own. Even though he was present as my mom stuffed the stockings, he kept his distance, lest he spoil the surprise. I think Sunny loved the holiday not only because of the novelty, but because it was one of the times when the entire family and some members of the extended family were together. This was particularly special once Chrissie and I left for college, and our presence was a bit rarer.
We shared many memories together. One reason that Sunny will always have a special place in my heart is that he there to support me during a challenging part of my life. Even when I was an unlikeable adolescent, Sunny would always be there to hug me or offer sympathy without criticism, judgment, or derision. He was uniformly patient and loving, even when I wasn't, and instinctively knew when one of us needed him there.
More than anything else, Sunny loved people, and most especially his family. He always wanted to be a part of any conversation. As a young dog, he would regularly jump into a chair in the kitchen so he could be with us during meals, and he staked out a position on the living room couch. He had a sense of humor, and would give us sly looks when somebody said or did something funny. Sunny's level of trust and understanding was beyond what I could ever expect of a dog, and he was amazingly expressive and communicative. Moreover, he genuinely loved each of us, and always wanted to be close. Even when he was arthritic and moving became more difficult for him, he wouldn't hesitate to get up, walk over, and share his company. When a family member was doing a chore, he would often lie in the middle of the path so he or she would continue walking past him.
Sunny's mere presence was more comforting than I even realized. It made me happy just to hear his collar jingle as he walked by, even if he was in the other room. When I walked through the door of my family home, the first thing I did was say "hello" to Sunny; likewise, the last thing I did before I left was say "goodbye" to him and ask him to be good while I was gone. He would sometimes wait by my room before going to my parents' bedroom at night, so he was often the last one I saw before going to sleep. It might sound silly, or even insulting, but I loved, and still love Sunny as much as I love any family member, even if the precise quality of that love might be different.
In any case, Sunny's passing wasn't exactly a surprise, as his health had deteriorated over the past few months. On April 6, I had taken him into the vet's office for a fairly routine check-up, but he had trouble getting into my car, and was very drowsy in the waiting room. The vet performed some tests and had noticed that his heart was very large. He was stabilized overnight, and taken to a specialist, who explained that Sunny had been infected with cancer on his heart and, to a lesser extent, on his spleen. Blood had begun to fill the sac surrounding his heart, creating pressure and making Sunny faint, and emergency surgery (a pericardial tap) was necessary to remove that fluid.
That surgery was a success, and, for the last month and a half of his life, his level of energy had renewed and he had a good quality of life. When he returned from surgery on Easter and was fawned over by the family, he may even have experienced one of the best days of his life. Still, we knew that our time together was limited, as the cancer couldn't be eradicated. We could only keep a close eye on Sunny and hope that he remained in good shape for as long as possible.
He remained stable until the night of the 27th. At this time, the rest of my family was spending the holiday weekend up north, and I stayed down in order to keep a close watch on Sunny. He barked at around midnight, and I came to help him outside, but he simply couldn't stand up, even when I supported him. This happened again an hour later. Since the vet's office was not open, even for emergency service, until the next morning, I had no choice but to wait until the next morning.
When I woke up, Sunny was having similar troubles, so I asked my grandfather to come over. We contacted the family and arranged for a pet taxi to take us to the vet's office. We were told that Sunny's cancer had spread, taking hold of his spleen and spreading to his brain. When my parents heard the news, they told me to euthanize him immediately; though they might have wanted to say goodbye, it wasn't worth making him suffer. He was delivered to an operating room, and the two of us spent several minutes together before I called the doctor back. The operation itself went fairly quickly. I hugged and petted him, with my arms were around his neck, and his head on my shoulder. Barely able to speak, I cried out that I loved him, and he died quietly. I took his collar, pet him one last time, and left in a confused state.
It is hard to believe that he's gone. Although the silence has gotten easier to handle, I know that there will be no one like him again. Though it is hard to deal with the loss, I have to be glad that I grew up alongside such a gentle, soulful, and generous creature. He will be missed and remembered by all of us.
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