A Guy And His Dog

Yesterday I attended the very touching California Fallen Firefighter Memorial in Sacramento, where my son, Alexander J. Stevenson’s name is engraved alongside the names of over twelve hundred other firefighters who have died in the line of duty in California. When my husband and I arrived home, our two dogs greeted us as though we had been away forever. It was sweet. Thinking about them, the memorial, and Alex, brought back memories of Comet, Alex’s dog for seventeen and a half years. She was a pit bull/ridgeback mix and was awesome! Alex loved her dearly. We all did. Because this mixture of musings was on my mind, I decided to share two passages from my memoir, Tumor Me – The Story Of My Firefighter, on my blog today. They truly tell about a guy and his dog.

-----Three days after Alex’s second craniotomy (12/05), he crawled out of bed, wobbled down the hallway, and vomited copiously onto the kitchen floor. He was in a great deal of pain as well. We rushed him to the emergency room, not knowing if he would make it through the night. A CAT scan revealed no brain bleed and we were sent home. My husband and I then took matters into our own hands. The passage below describes what happened once we were back at our house.

 Excerpt from Part Two:

Rick carried old Comet in his arms to Alex’s bed. Her eyes were wide and I believe she must have wondered where Rick was taking her and why. He placed her gently on Alex’s bed and she stirred a bit, unsure of why she was allowed this luxury.

Alex’s eyes had been closed, but when he felt the presence of his dog, he opened them. “Comet!” he said, in a voice so filled with joy and gratitude that I knew, without a doubt, that Rick’s decision to bring Comet in to be by Alex’s side was simply ingenious. Alex lifted his arm awkwardly to pat his beloved dog, and then he closed his eyes again, snuggled deeper under the blankets, and in what seemed only moments was asleep. 

We let Comet stay with Alex for quite some time and then carried her back out into the family room to her favorite dog cushion. She, too, fell asleep instantly.

This then was the origin of another little miracle. When I went in to check on Alex early the next morning, he was awake, alert, and free of pain. The following day, he was up and anxious to move around. I actually took him to the Wherehouse that day to buy some new CDs and a movie or two. Whether it was the pain medication, simply the passage of time, or the power of Comet’s love, I have no idea. I like to think, however, it was the dog.

-----The following event occurred four months following the December night that Comet showed what “best friends” dogs really are.

Excerpt from Part Three:

Alex experienced another heart-breaking loss about this time. Comet, his cherished dog, who was seventeen and a half years old, became gravely ill. It seemed as though she had lived long enough to be Alex’s companion during the summer he was on chemotherapy and to wait for him through his second surgery. She had given him her unconditional love for years, and had shared what little strength she had to give at the precarious moment, a few months earlier, when we did not know if Alex would survive the night. She had done her duty as Alex’s best friend. She was ready to go.

“Alex, Comet can’t get up,” I told him. “I need to take her to the vet.”

“Wait, “ he said. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

He was in North Highlands. It was an hour and a half drive.

“She’s really sick,” I said. “I’ll call and see when I can get an appointment.”

As fate would have it, the vet could not see Comet until the following afternoon. While I did not want her to suffer, I was somewhat relieved that Alex would have time to spend with her. I called to tell him.

“The vet can’t see us until tomorrow afternoon,” I said, “so don’t rush too much. Rick and I are right here with Comet. She’s sleeping now.”

“See you soon,” Alex replied, his voice thick. I was sure he was mourning her loss already. “I have to pack my meds and a few things and I’ll be on my way,” he added.

When Alex arrived, he went straight to Comet’s side and held her in his arms. She was so frail and weak by then. Her eyes were closed, and her breath was quiet and shallow. He patted her head (the lucky pit head he had called it) and gently, and painstakingly tucked her under several blankets before he went to bed.

“Good night, baby girl,” he whispered, planting a kiss on her velvet head.

In the early morning he was beside her again, petting her back, caressing her muzzle, and telling her what a great dog she had been. He was right. This little Marin County Humane Society puppy had been an absolute prize.

As the morning inched into noon, Alex stayed with his dog, finally picking her up in his arms and carrying her down the back steps of our house to the field below where, when younger, she had loved to tear around from corner to corner like a wild coyote. Alex cradled her in his arms, her feet askew, and her head lolling on his shoulder. He was talking to her as he walked around the field, and I can imagine him thanking her for being such a great pet.

We drove to the vet soon after in two separate cars. Alex was going straight back to Sacramento after the appointment. He needed to grieve alone, I suppose.

 One quick injection silenced Comet’s breathing that afternoon. She died with her snout in Alex’s hands. I stood by, touching her foot, my eyes too filled with tears to see.

             Tumor Me - The Story of My Firefighter is available on Amazon.com