Eulogy for Hank

It is an ironic reality of owning and caring for a dog that in many cases the last act of kindness we do for them is to take their life. Thus it was for me 9:12 PM Tuesday, June 30th, 1998. Over the past year we had performed two major operations on Hank: a leg amputation and a lung lobectomy, not to mention a number of minor procedures.

He had also gone through two rounds of chemotherapy. I do not regret this at all. The average life expectancy of a dog with bone cancer is about three months and these could be unpleasant months. With aggressive therapy you get, on average, one year. We got just over sixteen months and for the most part they were good quality pain free days. Lay people frequently believe cancer treatment is worse than the disease but in my experience with dogs and cats this is totally wrong.

Still, cancer is a relentless adversary and in the end it beats you. I had exhausted my veterinary bag of tricks; no more magic wands. Hank's cancer had spread to his stump and his lungs and there was nothing more I could do to stop it. No matter what I would not let my dog suffer. My mind flashed to the scene from the Disney classic "Old Yeller" where the young boy knew he had to shoot his dog; the same dog that had saved the boy's life but in the process had been bitten by a rabid wolf and thus in essence had sacrificed his own life. That boy was me. I did not want to euthanize Hank but I knew I had to. So I did. I remember sobbing with my wife and a close friend after completing the lethal injection. I wrapped my arms around his body and felt him go. Then my hand came to his cancerous stump: hard, mean and angry and I felt like I was confronting the devil himself and cursed the cancer that had beaten me and taken Hank's life.

I will miss Hank. He was living proof that you don't have to be smart to be a good friend. He was a goof ball who always seemed to be getting in the way, stepping on your toes, or stealing food from the cocktail table at the slightest opportunity. Yet he did this so innocently and benignly I could not get angry at him. Nobody could. And he could make you laugh! My God he could make you laugh! Hank didn't have a mean bone in his body in spite of his menacing Doberman appearance. I think it was his gentle nature placed in a fierce body that made Hank so popular as an animal assisted therapy dog. There is something appealing about a dog who quite obviously could physically hurt you if he wanted, but who nonetheless acts the clown. With Hank the biggest thing you had to worry about was getting bopped in the chin with his head if you should stop petting him. He got a number of people including myself this way. No matter what had been going on, no matter what I was doing or where I was coming from, Hank was there to greet me with the same enthusiastic jubilation dog's are famous for.

Hank had come to our hospital courtesy of the Brookhaven Animal shelter having been hit my a truck. His left leg was badly fractured. This leg was destined not to heal right and ultimately became the cancer I fought and lost. But even in his pain and not knowing me, all he seemed to want was to be my friend. He licked my face and offered me his paw. So I took him in for the next five years and ten months and cared for him with all my heart and all my ability. That same look was on his face as I put him to sleep. He seemed to be thanking me for the additional time I had given him. He seemed to be thanking me for not letting him suffer. And he seemed to be telling me to not forget him but to go on and live my life to fulfillment.

Hank, I will miss your companionship and your spirit. I will miss playing with you in the field and taking you on animal assisted therapy visits. I will miss watching you like a hawk so you don't steal my food and I will even miss having to walk you in the rain. But thank you so much for being my friend and Lord thank you so much for bringing him into my life.