I began this blog when our dog, Beau, was diagnosed with terminal cancer. If you’ve ever been blessed with a good old dog who fills your life with love, you’ll understand why that news was a sledgehammer to the heart.
By the time this type of cancer makes itself known, it’s too late. Surgery or chemotherapy is not an option. “There’s nothing we can do,” the vet told me and my husband, Grant. “Love him up. Just know that this is Beau’s Green Mile…”
I understood the reference and maybe you do, too, if you’ve ever read Stephen King’s story, The Green Mile. It’s about prisoners on death row waiting their turn to walk the green hallway to the death chamber. What the vet was telling us was that Beau would be taking that walk one day soon.
At first, I couldn’t bear to think of it. I was so afraid for Beau—what was the cancer going to do to him? Would he be suffering? Would he know he was dying? What will I do without this dog who has been part of every corner of my life for the past twelve years? The rational part of my mind knew that there was nothing I could do to change this so I had to figure out a way to cope with the anguish I feel.
Isn’t it so true that what we love becomes so much more precious when we feel it slipping away?
The impending loss of this beautiful dog is giant reminder that life is short and we should make the best of it while we can. Grant and I want to hold on to every precious moment with Beau. Although the outcome of this story is inevitable, there is no rule that says the journey must be awful. And so, we resolved to make Beau’s Green Mile golden.
How do we enhance the remaining life of a dear old dog? We considered all the things Beau loves—he loves me and Grant, of course. He loves food; playing the finding game; chasing a ball; going to the Terwillegar Dog Park; or just having a comfortable snooze on a luxurious bed. So Grant and I came up with this idea to combine all the things Beau loves and add a whole lot of sparkle and light to this Green Mile.
We ordered a couple of plush orthopedic beds for Beau and his brother, Teagan. That means they each have a cozy bed on all three levels of the house, plus one in the sunroom where they can watch squirrels and sunsets.
I gave Beau and Teagan a bath, just as I have done countless times. I made sure the water was warm and I spent a long time gently massaging Beau’s head and legs. He likes having a bath. Sometimes he tips his head up as the water runs down his spine, luxuriating in the gentle rinse. Bathing and sometimes shaving my dogs has always been a big, half-day task—something I’d put off until I could spare the time. But now, it seemed important that Beau be clean and brushed and cared for. I heard somewhere that patients in hospital are encouraged to shave or slap on some makeup, no matter how bad they are feeling. Get dressed. Put your best face forward. If you look like you’re sick, you’ll feel sick, too. I want Beau and Teagan to look great.
I sifted through websites for what to feed a dog with cancer. I boiled whole skinless chickens and mashed them up with easy-to-digest steamed sweet potatoes. I keep the fridge stocked with cottage cheese and boiled chicken liver for treats.
Beau loves all of this. But his favourite, favourite things are going for a walk or a ride in the car. It doesn’t matter to Beau where we’re going, as long as he gets to come. Whether it’s a short drive to Home Depot or a weekend trip to the mountains, Beau’s eyes light up at the words, ”wanna go for a ride in the car?” He loves bounding happily through the familiar trails and country roads around our acreage. And if we drive somewhere and then let him out of the car for a walk somewhere new, that’s even better. He bounces out of the car full of interest and enthusiasm, eager to sniff and look and explore.
Grant suggested we go on a vacation somewhere. A couple of weeks in Arizona maybe. Somewhere warm and mindless, where we can relax. I was gobsmacked. Now? In the middle of a pandemic? When across the globe there are travel restrictions, vaccine passports, stories of hapless travellers forced to quarantine far from home?
Grant said, “If we wait for the right time, we wait forever. What are you waiting for, Deb?”
And I knew what I was waiting for. I’m waiting for Beau to die. And I realize how utterly bleak and sad that is. And how bleak and sad the entire world is right now. And maybe that’s why I decided that yes, we need to go somewhere beautiful. We need to find the sun and bask in its blazing glory. We need to do the one thing that Beau and Teagan love more than anything—go for a walk. We’ll go for a walk in the prairies and the mountains and the desert and the rainforests and on a beach. We are going to take Beau and Teagan on the greatest damn walk of their life.
This is story of Beau’s Green Mile, the last leg of our journey together and what it’s teaching us about life, love, grief, and joy. I’m going to write it down—with apologies for whatever sentimental or maudlin drivel lands on the page. I know I can’t keep Beau here, but maybe writing it down will anchor him to the world forever. I want to make the most of this journey—love him up—and brace myself for the end of the road.
If you want to come along on this journey with us, let me introduce myself. I’m Deb, a 58-year-old mom and grandma (my grandkids call me ”Tamma,”) living on an acreage west of Edmonton. My husband Grant and I met fourteen years ago, when we both were climbing out of the rubble of relationships that ended painfully. We stumbled upon each other and fell drunkenly in love.
We each had three grown children from our previous relationships and knew we would never have children together (I was 44–can you imagine?) Instead, we decided to cement our everlasting love by getting a puppy. Not just any puppy—one of those clever, non-shedding Goldendoodle puppies we’d heard so much about.
We found a reputable breeder in Saskatchewan who was bringing a litter of seven puppies to Edmonton and by the time we arrived to pick out a puppy, there were only two left. Which one to choose? The one with the curls? Or the one with the big feet that climbed into Grant’s lap and fell asleep? They were both so cute. The curly one was wiggly and joyful. The one with the big feet had the sweetest face. As they wrestled with each other in the grass, Grant and I both felt like it would be a crime to separate these happy little brothers. In the end, we bundled not one—but two puppies—into the car and would come to learn that life has a way of bringing into your world exactly what you need.
We named those little brothers, Beau and Teagan. Beau, after Grant’s old Chesapeake Bay Retriever, Bo (even though the spelling is different, Grant said it felt good to say the name again). Teagan, because I’m from Ireland and I love that beautiful old Gaelic name that means poet—a fitting name for an ever-so-graceful boy who floats when he runs.
Those puppies grew up to be wonderful, gentle, obedient, funny, friendly sensitive souls who never hurt a person or animal in their life. Intelligent in a way that defies explanation, they understand so many words that we started spelling things like W-A-L-K or B-A-T-H, but they came to understand that, too. But more than words, Beau and Teagan understand thoughts and moods. I just have think about going for a walk and both of them lift their head as if they heard me say it. And if I’m feeling sad, one or the other comes over and leans against my knee. Years ago, they somehow figured out that we humans need our slippers when we get out of bed. I awoke one morning to find them both standing there with my slippers in their mouth. They’ve been doing it ever since. It’s a trick that never gets old and will forever warm the cockles of my heart.
They know many other tricks of course—sit, shake a paw, bow, touch, dance—but the best is “the finding game.” They would have made great search and rescue dogs if what needed searching and rescuing was an oven mitt hidden under a sofa cushion.
Beau and Teagan have been part of mine and Grant’s journey since our paths first converged. In our alcohol-fueled early years, our boys were often the single reason for holding on, a shared something neither of us could relinquish. Over the years, Beau and Teagan have accompanied us through celebrations, losses, happiness, sorrows, and a total of four different moves to new homes. They’ve been with us every step—all the way to sobriety—where we’ve been for over six years and counting.
Since Beau and Teagan came into our lives, twelve beautiful grandchildren followed. Our dogs have been part of every grandchild’s history too, from the very first moment that a big dog poked his head into the carseat to greet a brand new baby. As each child learned to walk, they all had a turn at holding a leash with a big, patient Goldendoodle on the other end. Despite my attempts at vigilance, our dogs have endured numerous babies or small children falling on top of them, pulling their tail, bopping them on the nose, reaching into their dog food bowl or stepping on their toes and not once in all those countless times have either of these dogs ever harmed a child. They follow the kids out to the playground, through the forest trails, into the living room, bathroom and bedroom, usually falling asleep beside the bunk beds while I read Stuck in the Muck or Green Eggs and Ham for the 50th time to grandchildren spending the night.
But back to Beau and his struggle… This is not the first time Beau has fought for his life. He almost died when he was eleven weeks old and got parvo virus—a devastating disease that attacks the lining of the intestines. It takes about eight days for the body to shed the virus through a bloody diarrhea and during that time, puppies can’t hold anything down. They usually succumb to dehydration or starvation.
Grant and I took turns getting up through the night to trickle water into Beau’s mouth. The vet gave us a bag of saline, needles and tubing to deliver fluid directly under Beau’s skin in the hopes that his body would absorb enough moisture to keep him alive. We wrapped him in blankets to try to keep him warm. He became so weak, at one point, I thought he had died.
Thankfully, my husband knows his way around a sick animal. Years of being a dairy farmer helped him set emotion aside. While I sobbed with our limp, lifeless puppy in my arms, Grant took him from me and set him on the grass. He rubbed his body and said, ”come on, Beau, don’t give up.” And lo and behold, Beau pulled himself up on wobbly legs. We rushed him to the emergency clinic and because the vet suspected the highly-contagious parvo virus, they wouldn’t even let us bring him inside. A technician in a yellow gown and mask took Beau from me in the parking lot of the clinic and we had to put a $5000 deposit on our VISA card before they would begin treatment. A less distraught version of myself would have been disgusted at what seemed mercenary—demanding money of heartbroken pet owners before helping their dying puppy. But one’s focus becomes very narrow in times of sheer panic.
The vet told us Beau had a limited chance of survival but he promised he would do everything they could for Beau—blood transfusions, intravenous fluids, antibiotics and a tube in his nostril trickling nutrients into his stomach—but the rest would be up to Beau. “Sometimes puppies lose their will. They give up.”
I couldn’t bring myself to go see Beau in the hospital all hooked up to tubes. I couldn’t bear to see him suffering anymore. After three days of worry and very little sleep, I was exhausted. So Grant went to the hospital. He said Beau was so weak, he couldn’t lift his head, but my former dairy-farming softie encouraged that puppy to keep fighting. And fight, Beau did…
When Beau was six months old and it was time for him and his brother to be neutered, a new vet told us not to bother. ”Beau only has one kidney and it is very enlarged. This dog won’t likely live past five years old.” But Beau is not the sort of dog who gives up. And twelve years later, he’s still here.
Wow, those twelve years went by so fast. And in that time, if I had a dollar for every time someone asked, ”are Beau and Teagan twins?” I’d be rich. No, I tell them, not twins. There were seven puppies in the litter so that makes them—septuplets? Everyone asks, “How do you tell them apart?” While they both are blond with big brown eyes and a black button nose, they are very different dogs. Teagan has the more slender stature of a Standard Poodle while Beau has the more domed head of a Golden Retriever and a big curly tail. Teagan is intuitive and clever, figuring out how to open the child-proof latch on the baby gate; Beau is loyal and stoic, the kind of dog who stays up to keep me company long after Teagan has wisely retired to his bed. The kind of dog who maintains a protective circle around me and the grandchildren at the dog park and will abide no unruly dogs coming into the inner sanctum.
People say it’s impossible to tell them apart, but not for me and Grant. Teagan is the genius. And Beau, well, he’s the Lion-Hearted.
Beau’s always had a tremendous will to live. He’s always been strong as an ox and I hope that strength will serve him. We’re going to do everything we can to keep him nourished, hydrated, comfortable, happy and loved to pieces. Along the way, I plan to preserve some memories here in this blog. And who knows, maybe what unfolds here might help someone else who is walking a green mile with their own beloved dog. Maybe Beau will prove the vets wrong yet again. Maybe Grant and I will enjoy the journey. With hopes high, let’s see where the road goes…
Beau's Green Mile 