Pen & Candle

Hello Darling,

This post is by far the worst, most awful update to share. While I have started and unfinished many blog updates over the past year, I knew that this was going to be the hardest one to make.

We lost our boy Otis in the early morning hours of October 2nd 2023 to a ruptured tumor that caused him severe internal bleeding.

While in my social media posts, I glossed over his last 24 hours with us, but in this post, I want to back up to the Spring of this year.

I stood in our home, with Joe. Tears building up in my eyes. Otis by my side, per usual.

“I don’t think he’s going to make it beyond the next two years. Something in my gut says he has cancer, or at least large internal tumors. I can’t find it now, but I know I felt it. I’ve felt multiple small tumors on him, and I know that you have, too. Even if it’s nothing, I don’t want him to get so old that he won’t enjoy having another sibling. And Boris…he’d be lost without a friend.” I sobbed into Joe’s shoulder. The heavy weight of this gut feeling, watching Otis over the last year gain more little gray hairs leading to his 8th birthday…little subtle things. I tried to chalk it up in my head as overthinking, that I was wrong, that I hadn’t felt anything…

We had been discussing the possibilities of getting a puppy for months. Going over the “can we balance three dogs and a cat”? Will Boris like having a younger sibling”?

But before we even jumped into any commitments, we decided to take Otis to be checked on. They looked at me and Joe, and looked over Otis. The tumor I thought I’d felt that week earlier couldn’t be found. Just a small one, on his skin, the same one that had been there and hadn’t changed size.

The vet told us that it was a fatty tumor, very small, barely noticeable. That we shouldn’t worry or shovel money towards something that was just me being overly concerned, sensitive.

I let it go, trusted, and so very much wanted to be wrong.

In the Summer, our basset Flapjacks joined us. From the same family Otis came from. It was perfect. The boys got along, and Otis let Boris lead the way in puppy daycare.

We had additional follow up appointments for Otis over the months, all the way to the end of August. He was passing all his tests, being the same old good boy. Showing no signs of pain, discomfort or anything that indicated he had anything wrong.

He made it to his 8th birthday on September 30th.

We celebrated more on the following day, a Sunday. October 1st. That evening, after having what Otis would consider a perfect day: naps with me, play time with siblings, exploring his yard & best of all sharing doggy friendly homemade cookie cake. It was after he ate his cake and we danced around singing happy birthday, took photos/videos and cleaned all the messy chins and noses, he was settling down with me on the couch as usual. Shortly afterwards, he stood over to the side of the couch and vomited. My heart sank, I knew something was wrong. That gnawing, nagging feeling rushed back and I knew. I knew that this was not good.

I couldn’t bring myself to look as I asked Joe if his gums were pale, but he asked me to look, as he said, “yes.” This wasn’t a new question, I’ve asked him before through the years through each sickness. But I never explained why I would ask. Pale gums meant (usually) internal bleeding, severe issues, things that were never good.

I got up, grabbed a chair and pulled myself in front him so he had room on the couch. I let him lick an ice cube from my hand and watched him. He looked at me, panting, and I knew that he was in pain. He wasn’t crying, he knew that this was his time, and he looked at me as he always had since he was a puppy. Unconditional love. He licked slowly, not wanting to drink. I rubbed his paws, his face, slowly stroking his head and chest. I knew that it helped him feel better, even just to know I was there with him.

Joe paced. He watched, it was so late in the evening. Almost midnight. I said, “let’s wait five minutes and I’ll call.” I knew that the moment Joe took him to the ER, my baby boy would never come home, but I didn’t say anything to Joe. It broke my heart, knowing he’d have to take him alone, that he’d be alone when they told him inevitably what I already knew while sitting in our living room: Otis wouldn’t make it back home with him. I kept stroking Otis’ chest, and dialed the ER vet with my other hand, remaining stoic. I didn’t have anyone to watch Boris and Flapjacks this late at night, and I was trying so hard to not believe what I knew, Otis was very, very sick.

All the while, the boys would run over and sniff him, then jump back into playing. Flapjacks didn’t understand what was happening, but Boris did, and he did what he needed to do: keep Flapjacks distracted.

The tech who answered my call to the ER vet hospital was sympathetic on the phone as I explained his condition. As Joe got dressed, and I was on the phone, Otis threw up again and this time collapsed forward to lay down. He was losing his energy, and I didn’t want to let him suffer more.

Joe carried him to the car and I took one last car photo of Otis. While I can’t find it, his first photo I took of him coming home was in the back seat and I wanted one more of him, his last ride.

Time felt like it dragged during that time.

When Joe finally called after they’d run their testing, it was about 1:30am at this point. I cried in my foyer after I hung up with him. Otis most likely wouldn’t make it three months, and that was if recovery was successful, doubled with his knees being compromised already from his injury over a year ago.

The overwhelming feeling that this was his time washed over me, as if it was my late grandmother reaching me to say, “it’s okay, this is his time, he’ll be okay, he’ll be with me and he’ll be okay with me. I’ll keep him, and I’ll make sure he’s safe.”

I sobbed. I screamed. And then I pulled myself together enough to make calls, calls for someone to come help us so I could get there and be with him, and Joe. I knew they had him on pain medication and fluids, keeping him comfortable enough until I could get to him but time dragged like sharp shards of glass through my heart.

By the time I got on the road, it was a clear, eerie night. No other patients were in sight when I arrived, the team knew who I was on sight, and I fought back tears as I said his name. They escorted me to the room. He was on a rolling table, with blankets under and over him. His IV hookups on his little arms. Joe there holding one of those beautiful brown and white paws in his hands. Otis looked up at me, but didn’t lift his head. He had heard my voice. I dragged a chair over and sat in front of him like I had at home, but this time I reached out to stroke his head softly and quietly kept crying.

We sat there, crying together. Techs coming in, me telling them we didn’t want to do the surgery because we already knew it wasn’t going to go well for him and would ultimately cause him more pain and suffering.

When he tried to stand and defecated blood, I knew his condition was worsening by the hour and it wasn’t fair to let him suffer more, even with the fluids and the medication, he was tired, he was ready and in all of his body language, I knew.

In-between the minutes, my dad came in, got one of our keys and said his goodbyes to Otis. He and my brother were a godsend, answering my calls and coming to help. They dropped my mom at our house to watch the boys, while they came to get one of our vehicles because I knew I couldn’t bear the drive home alone. I knew I could only hold on long enough to get to this point.

Joe and I played Sitting on the Dock of the Bay by Otis Redding, the very person he was named after. A song we played frequently, often, and usually danced with him to. Joe half jokingly asked if we’d all fit on that little steel table so we could hold him between us as we did so many times at home. We both just wanted to absorb his pain, his suffering and fill him with the magnitude of love we have for him.

We played the song, kept rubbing his paws, his head and whispering to him how much we love him, how he was being such a very good boy, such a good, good boy and he drifted to sleep as he knew that we were there. His body relaxed, he began to snore softly, the song ended and all was left was our soft crying. I pressed the button for the vet to come in.

She bit back tears as I sobbed, harder, squeezing his paw tighter and trying so very hard to not watch him take his last breath as he was still asleep. Our breaths were in sync at that point, something I did regularly for his whole life, and then so quickly his little snore stopped.

She left us with him, and we hugged and sobbed more.

Our baby boy was gone.

We spent the next week in a blur. I’ve continued to struggle with sleep, and yes we did add another new member to our family but not as a replacement of Otis, but as a much needed support member for Joe, for Flapkacks.

Boris hasn’t had it easy, the loss of Otis has increased his anxiety. And I know he reads me like a book, which doesn’t help.

It’s been the hardest loss of my life. While I knew it would come one day, I never expected it to be right after his birthday into the month we’d made so many plans to include him into: Pumpkin patch picking, vacations together and even Winter vacations we’d been looking into.

Otis came into my life when I was going through the hard loss of my grandmother. He clung on to me, bonded with me more than he did Joe and he was truly a momma’s boy. I hate myself many hours of the day when I think back to earlier in the year, how I feel as though I let him down by not listening to my gut and advocating for more than just the single panel test the vet did. I hate myself for not spending more time with him, for not taking him literally everywhere with me. But most of all, I am grateful I was home when he got sick, I’m grateful that we were all together, that he had the best time, that he was not alone as he was dying. I’m comforted by the strong feeling that he’s watching over me with my grandmother, that he’s there, wherever that is, watching me. Saying, “stop crying momma, it’s okay, I’m right here.”

He was more than just a dog, he was my best friend, my biggest support when I needed it, my baby boy, the reason I got out of bed for many, many days. He was my world and life without him in it feels very empty in all the small details and moments that I got used to having him with me for. Those nights I couldn’t sleep, he was always there leaning on me or sleeping on my legs, pawing at me to lay down too, or when I wouldn’t eat he would look at me and beg for snacks until I made a plate to share…I jokingly blame all my extra weight on him. His fur soaked in my tears for those times I cried, that chin leaned hard on my shoulder and fit perfectly on my chest when I needed a hug.

No dog will ever replace Otis, or the bond he had with me. But I know that he taught Boris that if and when he was no longer here physically, that Boris would be in charge of keeping me safe, glued to my hip and to always stay in bed with me until I was ready to get up. It’s no easy task to keep up with me, but Boris has been very supportive, diligent and intuitive of my emotions and Joe’s.

Finished & posted June 14th, 2024.