The Greatest Gift

Having just found out this week that the three lumps removed from my 7.5 year old Boxer boy Roman Noodle are benign (thank God), I feel compelled to share with you all the story of my first Boxer, as he has been on my mind a great deal lately. In the photo, he is the white faced smiling boy on the right wearing a red harness and a black bandana. His name was Copper.

After graduating from college, my husband and I agreed that one of the first things we would do once we got to our first duty station was adopt a dog. We bought books and researched to find the right breed for our lifestyle (this was long before I understood that there are many, many dogs in animal shelters and in rescues who need homes as well). We narrowed it down to two breeds: the Doberman Pinscher and the Boxer. We began looking for breeders of both, and a Boxer breeder in San Antonio beat the Dobermans to the punch with the first available litter. In November 1999, we drove down from Killeen to meet the two remaining puppies.

I’ll never forget the Boxers this woman had…..they were everywhere. In addition to breeding and raising show Boxers, she also ran River City Boxer Rescue. I was overwhelmed by all the wiggling butts, nubby tails, short snouts, and indignant barking. The two puppies we came to see couldn’t have been more different; one was clearly the runt, only half the size of his brother. Once I spotted the puppies, the rest of the world faded into the background. The runt captured my heart immediately. He was so full of energy and life, and his little egghead was simply adorable. I played with him for almost an hour, not realizing that the woman was observing my interaction with him the entire time. When I finally realized that I was being watched, I looked over at her and saw that she was smiling widely. “He’s yours if you want him. You chose each other.” We filled out some paperwork, paid the adoption fee, and brought our baby home.

That little dog was a handful! He wound up sleeping in our bed the very first night he was home. We didn’t have a crate yet, and used a laundry basket as a crate at the suggestion of the breeder. His pitiful cries and anguished clawing at the sides of the basket lasted about ten minutes (okay, probably more like five) before we freed him from his prison and welcomed him into the bed.

They say Boxers never grow up, and if they do at all, it isn’t until they’re four or five. This was definitely true of my boy. He was an absolute clown, and only started to mature slightly at 2.5 years old when we brought home a female Boxer puppy, Kasey, from the same breeder. Copper would eat anything that wasn’t nailed down (although he never ate drywall like Kasey did, thank goodness. That stuff does NOT look good when it comes back out of both ends. Onto your couch. True story). Shortly after we adopted him, we also adopted a black and white shorthair kitten from the Killeen Animal Shelter. We named her Maddie. She and Copper were best buddies, and they collaborated when it came to getting their paws on human food. One night when they were both still less than a year old, I made a turkey loaf for dinner. We left it out on the island in the kitchen so we could go back for seconds. At one point after dinner I went into the kitchen and noticed that the plate was still there, but the turkey loaf was gone. I went back into the living room and thanked my husband for putting it away. He said, “I didn’t put it away.” We turned and looked at Copper and Maddie, who were both licking their chops in an extremely satisfying way. How they got it off the plate without making any noise (the house wasn’t that big, and you could see the kitchen from the living room…we should have heard something!) clearly indicates a high degree of teamwork. On his own, Copper once ate a box of 24 croissants in approximately 45 seconds, everything out of a Hickory Farms gift box except for the jelly (stupid glass jars), every piece of paper within reach including an LL Bean catalog, a Victoria’s Secret catalog, and the latest issue of People, and all four corners of a wooden coffee table that I still own. There’s much, much more, but there isn’t time to list it all.

Copper and I used to play a game that I’ve tried to replicate with my other dogs, but have had no success. I would say, “Copper! Do you wanna dance?” He would immediately go into a play bow (downward dog for you yoga types), turn his head to the side, bark, and then run away. I would chase him for a bit, stopping every once in a while so he could go back into his play bow before running off again, then he would finally come up to me, jump up, put his paws on my waist, and dance with me while I sang the song “Dance With Me” by Orleans. You know the song…..”Dance with me, I want to be your partner…can’t you see, the music is just starting….” I can’t hear that song now without tears coming to my eyes or feeling a dull stab of pain in my heart.

Copper went on many adventures with us. He fell into the Pecos River in Texas once as a puppy, and I believe that contributed to his lifelong aversion to water. On a camping trip to Ft. Davis, Texas, Copper, ever the protector of his pack, stayed up all night growling at a pack of javelina that surrounded our pop-up camper while his sister Kasey snored next to him. He tolerated Doggles, wore hats when it was too sunny out whether he wanted to or not, and went on many runs with both his Momma and his Daddy. When he would run with me, I would say to him right before the end of my run, “Take me home, buddy!” and he would immediately start sprinting to the finish, with me trailing behind. On hikes he always took point, venturing out ahead of us only to periodically run back to make sure we were okay before bounding off again. He and Kasey spent a year with my Dad while we were in Iraq; it was the only time he was ever away from me. Copper was never happier than when he was with us, which is why I cannot even begin to imagine how confused he must have been when his Daddy left.

At the time, I worked at an animal shelter. One of my friends there, a canine behaviorist, warned me that I would begin to notice changes in Copper the longer my husband was gone. She told me that Copper had always known only one smell: the combined smell of his Momma and his Daddy. Soon he would know only mine. I didn’t believe her until a couple months later when my husband came to the house one night to pick up a few things. I stayed upstairs, nestled in my giant armchair with my knees up to my chest, struggling to keep it together. The other two Boxers immediately ran downstairs to greet him when they heard the door open (you can’t have just one….by this time we had added a third, Grace. She is the stoic one in the picture and Kasey is lying in front of her…they are both gone now….). Copper stood at the top of the stairs, watching. Finally, he looked over at me. I said, “Go on, buddy. Go see your Daddy.” He slowly made his way down the stairs as I fought back tears. Not less than a minute later, he bounded back up the stairs, jumped up in my chair, turned, and sat directly on top of my feet with his back to me. I realized my husband was coming up the stairs. He stood there at the top, staring at Copper with tears in his eyes. He looked at me and said, “I guess he’s not my dog anymore, huh?” I replied, “I guess not.”

About four months after my husband left, he deployed to Afghanistan, but not before he told me he was reconsidering the divorce. For a brief time, my heart began to repair itself. Two months into his deployment I received the Dear Jane letter, via email and snail mail. The blow was immense. If I hadn’t had Copper…..if I hadn’t had him there, my rock, my little buddy….I would probably not be typing this today. In those dark days, he was my rock, and he never faltered. As I wandered the rooms of our dream house talking aloud in a voice full of tears, asking God why, the other animals ran, frightened by my anguished cries. Not Copper. He followed me. He quietly laid there with me when, exhausted, I would curl up into a ball on the floor wherever I happened to end up, unable to move, unable to think…only able to cry into his soft fur, listening to his steady heartbeat. I am certain that there were times he could hear my own heart as it broke into a thousand tiny pieces over and over again.

Copper had just turned 8 when his Daddy left, and he was starting to slow down a bit. His fur was slowly going white, particularly in his face. I pretended not to notice. One day after work, we were walking to the truck (the beauty of working at an animal shelter was being able to bring my babies with me to work) when he spotted a rabbit. He took off like the puppy he wasn’t, and I watched as he made it only a few hundred yards before he began limping. He was diagnosed with a torn ACL, and had surgery to repair it in June 2008. I will never forget the day I went to pick him up. He spent the night at the clinic because the surgery was late in the day. I heard him…..the jingle of his tags, his panting….long before I could see him. Finally, I saw him pass through a doorway, his head and eyes scanning the room, searching for me. When his eyes met mine, his face erupted into a giant grin, and even though he’d just had surgery, he immediately began pulling at the leash, trying desperately to make his way over to me as quickly as he could.

At the beginning of August 2008, we went to a photo shoot for a local magazine. The story was about local folks and their dogs. Because of my work at the animal shelter, the magazine chose me and my pups as one of their subjects. I have all eleven photos from that photo shoot, and the one you see here is my very favorite, mostly because of the look on Copper’s face. He was so happy. So happy just to be with me.

On Wednesday, August 13th, 2008, I returned home after having dinner with friends. I let the pups outside to go to the bathroom; only Copper didn’t want to come back inside, he laid down on the grass instead. I was able to coax him inside, where he immediately laid down in front of the stove in the kitchen. I knew something was wrong, and white noise began to buzz loudly in my ears as I struggled to remain calm. I offered him a treat. He turned his head away.

I called the emergency vet and explained the problem. They told me that because he wasn’t exhibiting any obvious signs of distress, it was up to me as to whether or not to bring him in. I didn’t think long about what I was going to do; we got in the car and made the 20 mile drive to the emergency clinic. They took him away for his exam while I filled out paperwork. Blood test after blood test revealed nothing. The vet told me if none of the blood tests could pinpoint the problem, we then go on a “cancer hunt.” Boxers are notorious for cancer. They ended up taking only one x-ray. I was the sole client in the eerily quiet clinic, so I distinctly heard the vet say, “Oh my God,” as she looked at his chest x-ray in another room. They brought me in so I could see for myself. Copper’s lungs were peppered with tumors. They were everywhere, those white spots…..there was almost no black on the x-ray at all. How long had he been this way, barely able to breathe? I buried my face in my hands and bawled. The vet gently said, “Copper doesn’t appear to be in any pain. Would you like me to euthanize him tonight?” I immediately responded with a firm “No.” I asked how long he had, and she said there was no way of knowing for sure, that every dog is different. Her parting words to me were, “You’ll know when it’s time.”

We drove home. On the way, I talked to him about how we would go on a road trip, just the two of us. I’d take time off work, and we would travel to all the places he loved. The desert, the mountains….we’d go camping and eat meat on a stick around a campfire. But the drive home was our last road trip together.

We arrived home shortly after midnight, and Copper hopped out of the car on his own. I walked slowly to the back stoop, unlocked the door, and turned around. He stood there on the grass between the garage and the house, silently staring at me. I swallowed my tears and said, “I’ll never let you suffer, buddy.” As the last word left my mouth, Copper collapsed, never to stand on his own again. I ran over to him, begging him to just get up, just follow me into the house, okay little buddy? Okay? Come on, please! We can have one last night together, Momma and Copper. But he wouldn’t, he couldn’t, get up. I carefully carried him inside, laid him down, and ran to email his Daddy in Afghanistan. I told him to call me as soon as possible if he could, because our boy was dying. Five minutes later, the phone rang. I’m not sure he could understand me through my tears, but I explained what had happened as best as I could. Then I told Copper his Daddy was on the phone, and that he wanted to talk to him. I held the phone to Copper’s ear so he could hear his Daddy’s voice one last time. I watched his ear twitch, and I swear I saw his little nub wag just a tiny bit. I told my husband that I was going to take Copper to the shelter and euthanize him myself that night; there would be no waiting until morning when I could ask someone else to do it, and I couldn’t drive 20 miles back to the emergency vet. He told me that he was certain Copper wanted it this way; he wanted to be with his Momma at the end. He wanted his Momma to set him free.

I called a couple dear friends to take me to the shelter because I knew I couldn’t drive myself. I wanted to spend all the time holding Copper that I could before I had to let him go. In the backseat with Copper, I told him how much we loved him, how much better our lives were because of him, and how much he meant to us….how much he meant to me. I thanked him. Finally, I told him I would set him free, and that is what I did. Looking back, sometimes I can’t believe I had hands steady enough to draw up the solution, tie the tourniquet, and slide the needle into my Copper’s vein. I’ll never know how I did it, because the second the plunger reached the end and the solution began to make its way to his heart, I collapsed in agony on top of him. Copper died quickly and peacefully in his Momma’s arms, six weeks shy of his 9th birthday.

What I haven’t told you is that that very morning, Copper showed no signs of being in pain or that anything was amiss. He was his normal self, gobbling down his food and patiently (or impatiently) waiting for his sisters to walk away from theirs so he could lick their bowls. You see, he waited until he knew I was strong enough to stand on my own. Only then did he choose to let go; when he felt my heart could handle it. That, my friends, is unconditional love.

Copper’s soul is still with me. I carry him in my heart, and in my own soul. He is my guardian angel, and every once in a while, he still send me signs that he’s watching; he still takes care of his Momma. He is, was, and always will be, the very best dog I have ever known; he is my heart dog. I still make time to rejoice in his silliness and in his eternal youth, particularly when I am feeling down. I sing “Dance With Me” when I want to feel his presence, even though it’s my Roman Noodle in my arms. Copper brought me, and so many others, an incredible amount of joy and happiness, but his greatest gift to me was not allowing my pain to swallow me whole. He saved my life with his love, and the only way I could repay him was to free him from his earthly pain.

Until we meet again at the Rainbow Bridge, Little Buddy. Momma loves you.