Rowdyroo

I thought Rowdy was gaining weight because his waist looked a little thicker sometimes, so I cut back on his breakfast and supper rations, which seemed to help a bit.

I thought he was getting sore because he sometimes took an extra hop before he jumped into the truck, so I had him use the ramp for entrances and exits, which seemed to help a bit.

I thought he was having tooth troubles again because he didn’t always clean his plate, so I put water on his kibble, which seemed to help a bit.

The still small voice thought that it was cancer, but that’s where the still small voice always goes isn’t it?

The still small voice was right.

A noticeably swollen stomach got us an Urgent Care appointment with our vet last Monday morning, where we learned his belly was full of blood, most likely due to cancer of the spleen, a condition disproportionately common in golden retrievers, highly malignant, slowly developing and asymptomatic in its initial stages.

Heartbreaking.

And beyond.

Standard treatment for hemangiosarcoma includes surgery and chemotherapy with an average survival time measured in months.

If we opted to pass on surgery? “Spoil him rotten for the next couple days because that’s what he’ll have left.”

There was a tiny possibility that the tumor was benign, so in the beginning, I chose to think positively. After all, this was Rowdy we were talking about – Rowdyroo. Punkin Pie. Smartypup. Study Hall Monitor Extraordinaire and all-around swell dog.

We went to a specialized referral clinic with a blood bank and an oncology department, where an ultrasound confirmed the tumor on his spleen.

I was ready to spend his inheritance, but a few hours into diagnostics, the estimate swelled to a point that would require not only Rowdy’s birthright, but Ruffian’s, Chicago’s Moe’s and most of Fennel’s. And that was only for the surgery. Chemotherapy regimen and other post-surgical care extra.

Plus, there was a noticeable lack of positivity in prognosis. Despite the steady stream of kind and compassionate conversation explaining processes and procedures, cost estimates and deposit requirements, there was little hope expressed. No one mentioned more than “months” in the few references made to the future.

So, we chose a choice that wasn’t within miles of our radar when we started what was supposed to have been a regular Monday morning.

I wanted to bring Rowdy home for the night and to our clinic of 25 years on Tuesday morning, but the treating veterinarian insisted, several times, that he’d already lost too much blood, was still “actively bleeding” and she could not recommend that.

So, I fed him as many of the treats as he wanted from the barkuterie platter offered by the clinic staff, and with George and Ruff sitting on the floor with us, I massaged his shoulders, rubbed his ears and said all the things I needed him to hear.

And then we said goodbye.

Hindsight can be a bitch. I don’t usually indulge much time in the fruitless waste of energy that comes with “should have;” and losing any of my animals always leaves my heart a little heavier. But losing Rowdy lined it with an extra weight – a rucksack of regret.

In retrospect, maybe I should’ve stuck with my standard operating procedure when it comes to extraordinary lifesaving measures. Maybe I should’ve just brought him home and spoiled him rotten for as long as he was comfortable instead of subjecting him to the stress of treatment by unknown people in an unfamiliar place.

But I didn’t, and maybe he deserved better.

Rowdy was an exceptional dog. He could distinguish his “squeaker guys” by name and when asked to find his Squeaker Bone, Big Guy, Squeaker Man, Latte, or the Red Toy, he would search, including Upstairs or Downstairs as directed, until he found the requested toy.

He waited, without reminder, on stairway landings, at doorway thresholds, and at the edge of the open tailgate, until he got a verbal “ok” to continue forward progress.

He knew how to read a room. At home, he found a safe spot to lay low at the sight of the purple jersey and the sound of the Skol Chant.

At my parents’ house, he’d make sure to find them both, in the office, the bedroom, the family room or the kitchen, before he settled on his spot next to the recliner or in front of the couch.

When my Dad was recovering in a transitional care facility, Rowdy spent much of his visits resting his chin on Dad’s feet, grounding them both.

At school, he trotted into the library to start his shift as Study Hall Monitor, and made his rounds around the room, checking in with each student, a brief snuffle to those not interested, circling back to those who needed a little love.

The girls learned to wait for his return. They came to understand that his first fly-by was not a personal snub, just a part of his process.

As was the way he sat at their desks with his back turned to them – his way of positioning himself for a mutually satisfying shoulder massage.

He entertained them with his small bag of tricks, speaking when they asked, even when he had nothing to say and would instead offer chortles, warbles, and whines.

He shook their hands no matter if they asked him to “shake,” “paw,” or “give me 5”.

He bowed, “swam,” and once played a small role in their school production.

He checked on them in the Chill Room if they were struggling to process their way through a problem.
He greeted them in the hallway when we knew they’d had a tough night.

Rowdy didn’t like hugs, even from me, and he gently schooled a few students in the art of acknowledging personal space, though he seemed to soften his stance this year, allowing the occasional adolescent arm to loop around his neck on an as-needed basis.

He had a passion for any rubbery squeaker ball, an outside-only toy, and was sometimes reluctant to give them up, torn between clutching a dirt-encrusted Chuck-it and coming in the house, so he’d stand in the garage for a few extra chomps before setting the ball in a safe spot on the back step, conveniently located for an easy grab-n-go on his way out of the house.

The sole exception to his Hold Tight policy was the intermittent opportunity to sprint across the pasture in hot pursuit of a deer spotted in the swamp. He never came close to catching any of them and it almost always cost him the cherished chuck-it, but I guess the chase was worth it.

Occasionally Rowdy would recapture a lost ball in the woods, and when I went to the barn after returning from the clinic on Monday night, I found his final find – a filthy faded squeaker ball, placed on the floor drain in the barn aisle.

I left it sitting where he set it for several days, then moved it to a shelf in the tack room.

Since Ruff prefers chewing branches and twigs to chasing chuck-its and tennis balls, the rest of Rowdy’s sunken squeakers are now laid to their eternal rest in the swamp of Four Sticks Farm.

The new canine King of the Castle has settled quietly into the rhythm of a new routine – perhaps he paid attention to the lessons of his leader.

Except for barking at the barn cat. Apparently, he was absent that day.

We’re all adjusting to the activities of daily living in a one-dog home, and that is where we’ll stay.

For now.

When I started my search for a new dog to join old Boone the brindle Greyhound in our pack, I didn’t want a puppy. Then I got a 7-week-old Golden Retriever that I named Rowdy.

In late July of 2023 I told George how great life was with a single, reliable, well-trained dog. Then I adopted a semi-hairless maybe Golden Retriever with major skin infections and a mystery history that I named Ruffian.

Life. No promises.

I finally took his travel crate out of the truck and removed the ragged beach towel from the handle of the bathroom door but still look for Rowdy when it’s time for a walk in the woods or for dinner and a drink.

During a break in barn chores, I sometimes look out across the pasture and picture him racing back from one of his deer dashes. Pure joy.

Lest I worry about forgetting the pure joy he gave even better than he got, I look at any of the 565 pictures in my phone’s “Rowdy” album.

Or the filthy faded squeaker ball on the tack room shelf.