Why it’s okay, even necessary, to grieve for our dogs

None is as strong as the bond between people and their dogs. We’re the perfect companions. It’s said life is better with dogs, that the only thing wrong with dogs is that they don’t live long enough.

WATCH: CFJC captured this footage of Mel and Jesse in 2016.

I was reading an article that said scientists have found that when humans and their dogs gaze into each other’s eyes, there’s a spike in the hormone oxytocin in the brains of both. Oxytocin is associated with strong feelings of love and protection.

The years of joy and love between human and dog invariably end in heartbreak. We know it’s coming, but we accept it in trade for the years that come before. Yet we can never be ready for it.

Such is the case with our Jesse, who came to us through a phone call eight and a half years ago when we were told of an especially gentle five-year-old Golden Retriever in need of a home.

Everyone’s dog is the best dog there ever was, but our Jesse was perfect. Smart, intuitive, brave, athletic, as beautiful inside as he was handsome on the outside, kind and loving. Everyone who ever met Jesse instantly loved him back.

I’ve often mentioned Jesse in my columns and editorials in connection to various topics involving dogs. He was even on CBC Radio. And you might have seen him about a year and a half ago when he was featured on CFJC-TV news in a story about a campaign to convince Royal Inland Hospital not to stop supplying chemotherapy drugs to dogs.

Dr. Matt Nicol of Riverside Small Animal Hospital, an exceptional and compassionate vet, was writing letters and making calls to keep the life-saving medicine available. I wrote an editorial about it that featured Jesse, who had been one of Matt’s chemo patients. The station followed up with a story, again featuring Jesse.

Encouraged by then-Health Minister Terry Lake, the hospital reversed its position and kept providing vet clinics with the drugs. Though Jesse’s cancer was in remission at the time, it turned out he would need those drugs again for a second round.

There never was a better ambassador for a cause than Jesse. When he was first diagnosed with lymphoma, we decided without hesitation to fight for him, and Matt put him on a chemotherapy regimen that involved weekly injections for five months.

I know what a lot of people say. Humans try too hard to save their pets. They spend too much money. Just let them go. But Jesse, as most dogs do, handled the drugs very well. What a brave, happy boy he was through it all. After the second round, his cancer again went into remission.

We knew, of course, that he was living on borrowed time, but we treasure the extra years we were given with him. “He’s just an old dog with cancer,” we’d say fondly as we spoiled him with another treat.

A week ago yesterday, though, the time came. It’s the dreaded outcome for all dog owners.

It hurts like hell. We wonder if there’s something more we could have done to keep our beloved four-legged family members with us. We feel as though we’ve betrayed them, abandoned them. Our mind tells us we shouldn’t feel guilty, but our heart doesn’t listen.

When we dog owners lose a dog, we grieve hard, as we would for a child. Some think grieving for a dog is silly and weak — a dog is just a dog. Save your grieving for people. Well, I’ve done my share of grieving for people, and I won’t apologize for my sorrow at losing my dog.

Our house feels deserted now, littered with well-worn stuffies and other toys, water and food dishes, treats, dog beds, his collar, a big chew stick I got him just a couple of weeks ago — the accumulation of a dog’s lifetime and each one now a painful reminder.

That magnificent tail is no longer there to greet us when we come through the front door. When I go outside I instinctively call Jesse so he can come out with me but there’s no answer. There will be no more walks. No more reading on the back porch with him slumbering contentedly by our side. At bedtime, I expect him to come up the stairs and settle into his bed in our bedroom, and it hits me again that he’s not here.

I want to watch Jesse run on the beach again, and hear that funny little howl of his when he’s happy, and tousle his big floppy ears and gaze into his big brown eyes, but time has stolen him from us.

Dogs. When we say they’re part of the family, we mean it. We love them, they love us back, and then after a dozen years we lose them.

There never will be another dog like our sweet Jesse. Dogs aren’t widgets. When one is worn out you don’t just substitute a new one and carry on as though nothing happened.

In time, maybe we’ll ask another dog to share our home and our hearts, because life doesn’t seem right without a dog. But right now, we grieve.

by Mel Rothenburger

Why it’s okay, even necessary, to grieve for our dogs

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