Maple Reach

~ 2017 – 17 June 2024

We said goodbye to our wonderful dog Henry on Monday, 17 June 2024.

Henry on his last good day at the beach. 5 June 2024

It had been a hard few weeks for all of us, leading up to that day.

Since Henry’s last surgery to remove a cancerous tumor on his rump almost exactly a year ago, he had seemed extraordinarily well and happy. He had a new lease on life. He looked great. He had abundant energy. We managed his dry eye with a medicated eye goo, which he allowed us to administer 3X/day with the promise of a treat. He didn’t let it bother him.

We made lots of day trips to the coast — nearly every time a weekend (and sometimes a week day) presented us with decent weather and an accommodating schedule. He’d start whining the moment he could smell the sea, and it grew into loud barking as we approached his favorite beach at Manzanita. He’d want us to throw his ball a few times, then he would take it from there — dribbling and kicking the ball out behind him, chasing it, bringing it back, over and over. I never ceased to be amused by watching him do this. (And I have yet to create my aforementioned video montage…it’s hard enough to write this, so that will have to wait a bit.)

In the meantime, Henry did the rounds at our little farm every morning. He trotted around in the pasture, gazed at our Shetland sheep and touched noses with the neighbor’s horses. When the weather was warm, he napped on the deck outside my office. When it was cold, he slept on his office bed in front of the sliding glass door. He sat under the maples with us on warm afternoons, keeping a gentle eye on the chickens (who were not afraid of him at all because he gave them no reason to be).

Henry sculpted with great fervor, creating an oeuvre Jamie had trouble keeping up with for Henry’s Instagram. He took turns sleeping next to Jamie and next to me as we sat on the couch and watched movies. He ate with gusto and never said no to a treat. He sat quietly under the outdoor patio tables at restaurants — the perfect pub dog.

Henry took his first long road trip with us in late December/early January and hiked in the red rocks of Sedona. He was there when we scattered my parents’ ashes, and he behaved like a gentleman when we visited old friends who welcomed him into their homes.

Henry published a book of his sculptures, Henry Blue: The Incomplete Oeuvre. (All proceeds from the sale of the book go to his rescue organization, One Tail at a Time PDX.) As a result of his book, Henry even appeared on television.

It was quite a year. And it has been the calmest, least calamitous year for us among the past five. His miraculous recovery left us hopeful. Rather than dwelling in the knowledge and dread that his cancer could return, we consciously focused on giving Henry his best life. And Henry seemed thrilled to be alive in the world.

We had found a great in-their-home pet sitter who Henry got along well with, and we felt comfortable enough to venture away for the first time in years. We made a couple of shorter trips and Henry always came home happy and clearly well cared for. So for our anniversary in May, we made a rather quick decision to book a trip to Japan. We got regular updates from the sitter, Henry was playing with another dog visitor and eating well, until the last day.

We went to pick him up, and he had been having GI issues. On May 8 we took him to the veterinary ER to make sure he didn’t have a blockage. X-rays revealed that he had tumors in his lungs and other organs. His cancer had metastasized. Chemo and radiation would offer little help of prolonging his life at this stage. We were devastated. He was officially in our hospice care.

With some medication, his GI issues resolved. We were hopeful, but despite meds to help with nausea, he still wouldn’t eat much. We got him on appetite stimulants, hoping we might get him to consume enough food and herbs that might shrink the tumors, as his herbal regimen had done previously. But he ate less and less, and got fussier and fussier about what he would eat. He looked uncomfortable.

We still had some good days. A friend from the East Coast visited with her dog, and that gave him a bump of energy and appetite. We went to the beach on a glorious, sunny day and the dogs played. The picture at the top of this blog is one Jamie took on that day. It was his last playful day.

The next week we took him to the beach and he kicked his ball once. He just wanted to lie down next to us. He was done. That’s when it really hit us that he wasn’t going to be getting better this time. He was losing weight. His discomfort with breathing was more obvious. We gave him any foods and treats we could get him to accept, but his appetite kept dwindling and he would turn his head at most things.

A hard day.

Henry hadn’t been his usual, energetic self for a few weeks, but something was different that morning of June 17. His breathing seemed more labored. He refused to eat even his favorite treats. His eyes looked tired. He didn’t understand that it was the cancerous tumors in his chest that were making it hard for him to breathe. He just knew we loved him and he looked at us like he hoped we could make it stop.

Calling the vet from Compassionate Care was gut wrenching. We knew that if and when this day came, we wanted to be with him, on a sunny day in the shade of the big maple tree where we’ve spent so much time together gazing out at the orchard and the coast foothills, smelling the wind and listening to the birds sing.

It was raining that morning. The vet only had one appointment available before night time. We said we’d call back. We looked at each other and looked at Henry. We both cried. We called her back and made the appointment.

Despite having had multiple dogs, we had never faced a moment like this — a moment where we made the decision on behalf of a dog who was still aware of the world. A decision made out of compassion for his suffering, and one that felt both wrong and right at the same time.

The rain had let up some by the time the vet arrived. We were sitting outside with Henry. We had set up a blanket for him to lay on and some umbrellas to catch any raindrops that slipped through the big maple leaves.

Henry stood a bit and smelled the wind, but he had no desire to take another walk around the farm. We had gone out that morning on our usual rounds, but something was different. Slower. He didn’t want to come inside, despite the rain. Now he was back outside lying down in one of his happy places with us kneeling beside him. He seemed at peace there, satisfied to just be with us.

The vet was kind and soft-spoken. She put us at ease right away. She does this every day — a job I cannot imagine, yet one that serves such an important purpose for both animals and the people who love them and don’t want them to suffer.

She made friends with Henry so he wouldn’t be alarmed by her presence. She explained how she would give him a sedative that would help him relax and drift into an easy sleep. Then a second shot (IV) would stop his heart, relieving him of this world, this pain.

She gave us time to say our goodbyes.

Henry’s breathing was hard. He looked like he was profoundly uncomfortable. While it confirmed our decision, it didn’t ease our emotional pain in knowing what was to come.

Henry didn’t typically show his discomfort. He had been through significant physical pain in his short life (his story is in these blogs), and he had cultivated the ability to rise above it as he learned to walk and run again. He’d also survived two previous bouts with cancer of a type that doesn’t metastasize 80% of the time. But he, being in the other 20%, had apparently been fighting a cancer growing in him for months. Ever stoic, he didn’t show us any signs until very recently.

The rain stopped and the sky was gray. The vet waited patiently as we hugged Henry, kissed his soft head and looked into his eyes and told him how much we loved him. He knew, and he managed a few little wags to let us know he loved us back.

With an abundance of tears, we nodded and the vet came over and gave him the first shot. He began easing into a gentle sleep as we caressed him. More tears flowed.

Suddenly the sun burst through the clouds, casting a beautiful, golden light. The vet pointed behind us — we turned to see a doe and a tiny fawn passing through the yard, the first fawn we’d seen this year. Birds were singing in the trees. The second shot. Henry was at peace. More tears.

It was heartbreaking and beautiful at the same time. We should all be fortunate enough to ease out of this world in a beautiful place, surrounded by our loved ones.

Gratitude.

As I look back on my previous blogs here, I don’t think I mentioned just how much Henry has helped us through our human struggles since he joined our family two years and 10 months ago. We had far too little time with this wonderful being.

Henry has been a wonderful, calm, funny, joyful, sweet presence in our lives, providing us with emotional support through loss, illness and struggle. Despite being the subject of some of that struggle himself, he always reminded us to find joy in the moment and be grateful for being alive.

Now, as we face the loss of Henry, we are called upon to cultivate that gratitude once again. Gratitude for the joy we experienced with him. Gratitude for the pain as well, for it comes from having loved another being so much that his loss makes our hearts ache.

We won’t ever know what happened in Henry’s short life before he came into ours. But we feel comfort in knowing that we gave him nearly three years of love and care and play and joy. We showed him that people can be kind and compassionate and devoted to his well being. We did our best to give Henry a good life, and we did our best to give him a good death as well.

Rest in peace, Henry. We will always love you.