Hamlet.

April 12, 2019

I’ve never had to watch someone I love die a slow death before.

hamlet @ the office. he’s a dog with a job.

Our (my) dog, Hamlet is dying of lymphoma. He’s 7. He is my first dog – a wedding present from Rich.

On Monday, I dry heaved while we listened on speakerphone to an inappropriately chipper Dr. Ali Thompson deliver the news. She baby-talked her way through Hamlet’s diagnosis.

“He’s at least a stage three but might be a stage four but I couldn’t see it in his organs on the x-rays”

We put the phone on mute and fell in sobs.

No shit. She couldn’t see it. We’d been dealing with Hamlet’s extreme allergies for years — turns out they weren’t allergies. He had cancer. Misdiagnosed cancer. A cancer we could have treated instead of giving him allergy shots and buying $180 a bag hypoallergenic dog food.

Every “surefire” allergy treatment (Apoquel, Benedryl, Claritin, clemastine, shots, lotions, shampoos and special foods) failed him. He scratched off all his hair. I repeatedly asked the vets if we were missing some underlying problem.

They all told me “no – he’s too young.”

“at this late stage, you could do chemo, you might get 12 months –maybe more, maybe less.”

I wanted to smash something. I really wanted to punch Dr. Thompson until the tone of her voice matched the news she was giving.

We decided not to do chemo – the only question was how long does he have without it? The vet told us “Weeks, maybe months. ” Her voice lilting as she said it.

She chirped on about palliative care — could we bring him in tomorrow morning?

Weeks, maybe months.

to fulfill a dog bucket list
to feed him everything we thought he couldn’t eat: pork, chicken, lamb, peas, sweet potatoes.
to watch him dream run in sleep
to play dog at the top of the stairs
to make franken-toys.
to hear him bark and howl at non-existent burglars.

Weeks, maybe months.