Where do I begin?

We had a long day at the vet's office yesterday. Our Belgian Shepherd, Sindri, had been limping a little for about a week. We couldn't get in until this week, but yesterday he wouldn't put any weight on it and yelped whenever you touched it. I called the office and they were able to get us in right away.

Bill picked us up and helped put Sindri in the car. We got there and they did the normal check, looked at his leg and decided to do some x-rays. At first we thought there might be matted hair between the pads on his paws or maybe it was caused by a little fluid-filled cyst he had up on his shoulder. Either way, we weren't prepared for what we heard.

The vet came in and suggested one of us take the girls to the waiting area while he explained what was wrong. Bill suggested I take the girls and I immediately looked at the vet and knew. I just knew. I started to tear up but held it together as I took the girls to the hallway. I knew it was bad but I just didn't know the details.



I first got Sindri when I was in my last year at college. Bill and I had been together for about a year and half, and he had just moved to Atlanta to take a job. I missed him so much. We'd been together almost constantly since we met so it was a big adjustment not to see him every day. When the lease was up on my apartment that summer, I moved into a house with two other girls. I fully intended to get a dog. I'd always wanted one of my own and I knew having one would keep my mind off missing Bill.

I went to the Humane Society in the next town on a Friday afternoon. I was determined to get a small or medium-sized, short-haired dog. I was only going to look at first. I didn't want to make a hasty decision, so I'd look and then think about it before coming back on the following Monday. I looked at all the dogs and was drawn to a litter of puppies they had just gotten in. There were about 6 of them, so tiny, only 6 weeks old. They'd been discovered by a local farmer. All of them were brown except for one small black one. He was the tiniest one and kept getting pushed away whenever he tried to get to the food or water bowl. I picked him up and held him. He nuzzled my neck and let me hold him. For a minute, I thought he'd fallen asleep.

I knew right then that he was the one. Those big brown eyes just stared at me. I signed the paperwork, agreed to have him neutered, and he was mine. On the ride home, he lay in my lap for a while and then crawled under my seat. We drove straight to PetSmart so I could get a leash and dogfood and a crate and make an appt. for his surgery. I brought him home and the two of us became inseparable. I took him for walks (on which he tired so quickly, being so little. I ended up carrying him quite a lot.) I took him to the park. I even took him to get ice cream. The picture below was taken one day and actually run in the local newspaper.

I named him Sindri. It means "little elf" in Norse Mythology. It also happens to be the name of Bjork's son. But that was purely coincidence. I couldn't help that the name fit him perfectly. He was a little elf, with ears that stood straight up and the tiniest little body, the runt of the litter.

He was, and still is, an athletic and energetic dog. He loves to run and chase a ball. He's also the sweetest and, I mean this only with love, dumbest dog I've ever met. His happy little face just stares up at you and shows glee whenever you pet him or play with him. I sound cruel, but it's true. Potty-training didn't come easy for him, and learning tricks was never his strong talent. But he was, and is, so lovable and meek and has never EVER bitten anyone. He's terribly afraid of small dogs: our neighbors in our last apartment had a chihuahua and he would freak out and whine whenever he saw it. He's my buddy. He slept with me up until I became pregnant with the girls. He was with me when Bill and I broke up and moved apart for a while. He waits patiently for Bill to walk in the door each evening when he comes home from work, nearly pushing the girls out of the way as they wait as well.

Sindri has cancer. It's in his leg, near the shoulder right now, but we don't know how much it has spread to the other areas of his body. He has anywhere from two weeks to six months to live. After weighing all our options, we've decided to get his leg amputated. It won't cure the cancer, but it will at least take away the pain in that area for now. He's already on some painkillers to make it easier on him. He'll be able to enjoy life a little more until the other symptoms start showing up. The vet assures us that he'll have no trouble adapting to walking with three legs. The recovery will be quick: only about 10 days. Assuming everything goes well with the surgery, we'll be able to take him to the park (his favorite) and play with him once the skin has healed.

You can't even imagine how I feel right now. It's not just grief over his illness and what's to come. It's the fact that I've neglected and ignored him for so long. Since the girls have been born, I've just been overwhelmed with caring for two little people and I've barely remembered to feed the dogs at times. We used to take them to the park every weekend, but I honestly can't remember the last time we've done that in the past three years. I've yelled at he and Mallory (our other dog). Off the couch! Off the bed! I've gotten incredibly angry when they've had an accident or chewed something they shouldn't have. I've been downright mean. And you know what? That stupid dog still comes up to me and looks at me with those big brown eyes and loves me and wants to be petted.

You hear about people's pets dying all the time, but I guess I underestimated how it would feel. Even my childhood dog, Peke, who died last year didn't make me feel this way. Maybe it was the distance and time since I'd been with her. Either way, I know that this hurts. A lot. My only consolation is that we know we have a little more time with him. I can finally treat him the way he deserves. Countless treats. Sleeping on the bed. Lying on the couch. And lots of love and physical affection.