Beyond the Leash: How Two Dogs Taught Me About Life, Love, and Healing
Lessons in Love and Grief from My Canine Companions, Becks and Sega
We’ve all heard the saying, “Dogs are your best friends.”
I used to think that was a bit of a cliché.
After all, dogs aren’t people. They don’t speak, rationalize, or understand our emotional complexities.
Or so I thought.
But in the last four months, my experiences have turned that belief on its head.
Four months ago, our chocolate Labrador, Sega, started to change.
Unlike her usual self, a dog who adored food, she suddenly lost interest in it.
Sega (short for Segafredo, the Italian coffee brand my husband and I loved) has always been the epitome of joy.
She was mischievous, playful, spontaneous, and social - everything you could hope for in a dog and, honestly, things I sometimes struggled to be as a person.
In truth, Sega was my best friend.
There’s a misconception that mental health professionals like myself have it all figured out and “practice what we teach in sessions.” And for the most part, that’s true.
But many of us, including myself, battle with mental health challenges. Depression and anxiety have been constant companions in my life.
While I’ve learned to manage my symptoms professionally, perfecting the mechanism of compartmentalization, there are days the weight feels overwhelming.
Sega saw that weight in me, even when no one else did.
She knew when to rest her head on my knee or nudge me with her favorite toy, especially on low days.
Her presence was a silent reassurance, reminding me I wasn’t alone, even when I thought I was.
Then, one day, her life changed suddenly.
It started with her refusal to eat. She became lethargic, far from the energetic dog she’d always been.
I remember her as a puppy, thinking she was a little whirlwind. She was a joyful bundle of energy. I jokingly diagnosed her with “canine ADHD.”
Seeing her unwell, I knew something was wrong.
The day everything changed was the day she had her first seizure while my husband and I were walking her and our senior dog, Becks.
Her once-joyful spirit seemed trapped in a failing body.
Soon after, we learned Sega had lymphoma. More tests revealed the cause of her seizures was liver damage.
We were hopeful when the oncologist told us she had chronic lymphocytic leukemia (CLL), a type more receptive to chemotherapy.
For a short while, we saw a spark return to her eyes and a bounce in her step.
Sega’s back!
But then, hope disappeared as quickly as it appeared.
Her lymphoma had progressed to small lymphocytic lymphoma (SLL), which is harder to treat, especially since her disease had advanced within lymphoid tissues.
In two weeks, she went from recovering to deteriorating rapidly. Sega was slipping away, thin, weak, and unable to eat.
We faced an impossible decision: should we attempt further treatment to extend her life for a few weeks or let her go?
In the most agonizing moment of my life, we decided to say goodbye.
My best friend, the dog we thought would outlive her 16-year-old sister, was gone.
The grief was overwhelming. Every cell in my body ached with loss.
To this day, small things - a smell, a song, a memory - bring me to tears.
Becks was extraordinary, like Sega.
And yet, we still had Becks, the resilient older dog who had beaten cancer four years earlier and had her own survival story.
She survived melanoma, surgery to remove part of her cancer-infested jaw, chemotherapy, and numerous other medical conditions - arthritis, pancreatitis, kidney disease - were all managed.
Despite everything, she had the spirit of a puppy.
She had become incontinent in her old age, but a new medication restored her dignity.
She was deaf and blind, but she navigated our home with her nose as if she had mapped it out in her mind.
She was a fighter, surprising us all by outliving the mischievous Sega.
As much as I believed she’d pass away peacefully in her sleep, it wasn’t to be.
On Sunday morning, four days ago, Becks yelped.
I rushed to her side and found her stiff, her body betraying her again.
She had another seizure two hours later.
The reality hit me: her body was giving up, but her spirit held on.
After learning Becks was in severe pain, our vet suggested administering fentanyl for a few days. This would allow us to spend our final moments with her comfortably and prepare to say goodbye on Sunday.
My husband and I couldn’t let her suffer any longer. Keeping her in pain would be selfish.
We agreed to proceed with euthanasia the following day.
Yesterday at 11 a.m., we entered a private room at her veterinary clinic where she would take her final breath.
I held back my tears, put on a brave face, and tried to act strong.
Sega would have seen through my brief display of courage.
I squatted in front of Becks as she lay on the table.
I held her head, rubbing her ears with my thumbs and her neck with my three middle fingers.
I maintained eye contact as she drifted off, my focus on her eyes. She kept them open for a while - we held each other’s gaze. Then, slowly, her eyes closed.
The second injection sealed her fate. She felt no pain.
When her heart stopped, I was confused. She looked like she always did, lying on her side.
I put my hand in front of her nose. No air.
I put my hand on her ribs. No heartbeat.
It was done.
My husband and I sat alone with her for a while, stroking her lifeless body.
I cried. A primal grief. I kissed her, smelled her fur, and held her close.
The pain of losing her feels unbearable. It’s a familiar pain from four months ago.
Our home feels emptier and quieter. Their smells, quirks, and presence are irreplaceable.
The grief comes in waves, so strong at times that I can hardly breathe.
But I know one thing for sure:
Sega and Becks are no longer in pain.
Their absence is profound, but my love for them remains. It always will.
They gave me more than companionship; they gave me peace and a way to manage my inner darkness.
They were more than dogs; they were my friends and my family.
As I write this, my tears blur the words, but I know our decisions were correct. No more pain. No more suffering.
Sega and Becks, I love you both. Forever.
Hugs and cuddles,
xxx
Well, I guess my tear ducts needed cleaning today anyway.
I felt the same way about my cat , Oboe. My buddy, my familiar, my side-by-side. Took me five years to get over the grief that made it too hard to look at photos. I may share a post about how I came to deal with the grief.
Their absence becomes part of our lives. And in short, I am better for feeling the gravity of the loss than to have felt nothing.
Cyber hugs, be good to yourself . Your puppies would want that for you. 💕