Licorice, July 7, 1996 - February 9, 2010

She came to us an eight-week puppy.  The kids, especially Neil, had been wanting a dog for years, but Risa and I felt our house was too small for a big dog, and neither of us fancied little dogs.  When we moved to a bigger place in a less-trafficked neighborhood across town, the time was right to expand the family to include a dog.

We found her through the classified ads.  A woman in the west county had a litter of black Lab/blue heeler mixed pups to give away to good homes, and we were lucky enough to reach her in time to get one.  She came home with us on Labor Day weekend, riding in the back seat of the Volvo wagon on Neil's lap while we settled on a name for her.  She was terrified, having never before been separated from her dam and fellow pups, and when we brought her in the house, she quickly found a hiding place under the wood-burning stove in the corner of the living room.  It didn't take too long to win her over with love and kindness and food.

She was about a year old when she made friends with Hector, a big goofy black hound a year older than her.  Hector lived with a nice woman named Helen.  We all met while walking the dogs in the wild part of the regional park bordering Sonoma Creek, a favorite destination for both dogs.  They seemed to really enjoy being together, and before too long we fell into a mutual dog-sitting co-operative.  Hector would visit Licorice at our house when Helen was at work or out of town, Licorice would stay with Hector when none of her family could be home with her, and if both dogs had to be without their human companions for a time, they'd spend that time together in one of their houses.  Also Helen had the time most mornings to take the dogs out for long walks in the surrounding hillsides and vineyards.  It was a near perfect arrangement for everybody involved, canines and primates alike, until a couple of years ago when Helen got a new job in Tucson and she and Hector moved away.

By the time she hit thirteen, Licorice was beginning to show some signs of age beyond the usually graying of muzzle and coat.  Her hips occasionally betrayed her, and she showed a little less tolerance for boisterous puppies trying to get her to play, but she never lost her good nature and friendly attitude to creatures of just about any species that crossed her path.  Last November we had our first scare for her, when I came downstairs for her breakfast and morning walk and found her barely able to stand, her head tilted down and to the left and her eyes darting rapidly left and right.  We feared a stroke and rushed her to the vet, where we learned about "old dog vestibular syndrome", a common ailment of the inner ear that throws off the victim's sense of balance.  It's a temporary condition, and the doc advised us that the worst symptoms would disappear over the weekend, followed by a slow recovery over the next couple of months.  He was right.

That left us wary and more conscious that Licorice was on a steady and accelerating decline.  A few weeks ago when she abruptly went off her feed and began the completely uncharacteristic behavior of barking and scratching at doors for attention during the night, we brought her back to the doc.  He found swollen lymph nodes and the lab tests confirmed widespread lymphoma.  He estimated she might live a month or two more without treatment, possibly a year with chemotherapy.  We've had family and friends on chemo, and wouldn't subject Licorice to that kind of existence, unable to understand why she needed to be so miserable.  We could drug her to shrink the tumors and slow their growth enough to add a month or so of life, but she'd be lethargic and need to pee all the time.  It wouldn't be Licorice, and we'd be doing it to save our feelings, not hers.  She was already getting pain pills for her arthritis, and we decided to let her illness run its course, to keep a close watch and hope that we'd be able to tell when her level of discomfort would outweigh the pleasure she still took in greeting her family and friends when they came in the door, coming out to hang with Risa and I while we did our t'ai chi, getting her ears scratched, her coat brushed, her head patted.

Yesterday morning was the day.  She'd not eaten a good meal for a couple of days, her drinking bowl hadn't needed refilling, she showed trouble walking that hadn't been there a day before.  Risa and I both felt we'd reached the point where it would be a kindness to lead her to her rest, perhaps a cruelty to insist she stay.

So we called the vet and made the appointment for yesterday afternoon, and drove her there at the appointed time, held her while the first drug was administered, the one to ease her into sedation, stroked her and spoke soothing words while she slipped into her final rest, stayed with her for the second drug, the one that stopped her heart, said our goodbyes to her shell and then went home without her.

Risa cried softly through the whole procedure, but I shed no tears until now as I type these last words.

Good dog, Licorice, good girl