Last week was bittersweet. Even as I traveled to Pennsylvania to celebrate my mother’s 87th birthday, our old dog Spot was leaving us. He went downhill so quickly, from doing fine to not eating in a matter of a few days. An X-ray showed a large mass between liver and spleen, and there really wasn’t much we could do. My poor husband was with the vet while I was on the phone as we said goodbye.
We were Spot’s third family. He lived next door to us in Williamsburg and would come over to the fence for a scratch and a chat. He chased my chickens when they hopped that fence. When it became clear his current family couldn’t handle him, we adopted him. We had just moved to the farm where he has lived with us for the past 12 years.
Spot was a dog’s dog who loved to find ways to sneak out of the house and run for the sheer joy of it. We clocked him with the truck at 25 miles per hour in his early years. We were his third family. While he would have been happy to be a single dog and spent most of his waking hours within three feet of us, he accepted Major the puppy and then, to my real shock, Circe the cat, who arrived in 2020 and insisted on moving into the house.
It was hard to come home to a house without Spot. He had his favorite spots to sprawl in each room, often forcing us to step over him as we moved around. I may be able to sleep through the next thunderstorm rather than having to crawl out of bed and comfort him.
Bob and I have said goodbye to a few pets over the years and it does not get easier. We are comforted that we gave Spot his best life and did not allow him to suffer at the end.