Stig paddleboarding last year
We received the call that our dog Stig had two inoperable tumors visible on a CT scan. The masses were in such unusual places in his brain and throat that the specialist couldn’t safely take samples to see if they were cancerous tumors. She said we could try chemo on Stig, but she couldn’t wholeheartedly recommend it since she didn’t know if the tumors were malignant or inflammatory or what.
He’d had a grand mal seizure eight days before and hadn’t totally recovered. He constantly seemed dazed and confused with other abnormal characteristics suddenly surfacing.
The diagnosis wasn’t a huge surprise but still felt devastating.
Wellington at Peahi on Maui
We rescued Stig as a puppy six years ago three weeks after our bulldog Wellington died from a brain tumor. We watched Wellington’s rapid decline in shock. In three months, Wellington went from a vibrant dog to a shell of himself, incapable of reasoning. He was only four years old.
The week of Christmas, we made the painful decision to put Wellington down on December 26, 2013. On Christmas Day, Anthony made Wellington a huge steak and hand-fed him. For a moment, Wellington perked up. We took him up the canyon where he used to love romping and playing in the snow. When Anthony lifted him from the truck to the ground, Wellington just stood in the snow, so confused and lost. He never took a step.
The thought of experiencing that type of loss again bubbled grief to the surface. And with that grief came all the rest.
I’d just finished silently mourning the anniversary of the stillborn death of my brother and sister-in-law’s little girl named after me. A dear woman my companion and I shared the gospel with named her daughter after us. She died hours after her birth during the summer, too.
Stig’s decline dredged up every summer miscarriage and worse, the feeling that everything intimately associated with me dies prematurely.
He Had Been So Full of Life
We drove to pick up our Stiggy boy from the clinic—quiet, then full of words, then crying and quiet again. We couldn’t believe it. Stig is only six. He was so full of life.
We felt so supported by friends and family, lifted by their outpouring of love and sustained by their prayers. They’ve been there for us on so many occasions—as we celebrate or as we mourn.
Because of COVID, the clinic asked us to park outside and call when we arrived. We paid our bill over the phone. The vet tech gave us discharge information. We talked to the specialist again because we wondered if Stig would feel pain if we tried to adapt him to his previous activities. She didn’t think he’d be hurt by riding in his bike trailer or laying on a paddleboard.
We waited. And waited.
Stig on the ride home
Finally, we saw a vet tech ever so slowly walking with our buddy. Stig clearly hadn’t recovered from anesthesia yet. He’d peed all over himself. He couldn’t stand very well.
We jumped out of the truck to meet them. Stig’s eyes stared off into some faraway space. He didn’t seem to know us. Once he stopped, he couldn’t move towards the truck again.
We took him from the vet tech and said goodbye to her. Then I sat on the curb talking into Stig’s face while Anthony got the dog diaper on him. Anthony gingerly lifted him into the back of the FJ. I quickly got in the passenger seat so I could help him as he came up to where he usually stood or sat by us. But Stig didn’t move from where Anthony put him. He was so lost about what to do next.
I climbed over the seat to the back and steadied Stig while Anthony sat his back legs down and I moved his front legs forward so he could lay down. His breathing increased as his stress rose. I decided to sit with him back there while we drove the 20 minutes home.
Anthony began the journey home. I held Stig in place against the centrifugal forces as we turned right or left. He stared blankly into space with his new throaty, gargled, weird breathing.
We drove our Stiggy boy towards home. We couldn’t believe it. He was so much worse than when we’d dropped him off nine hours earlier.
Here Is Hope
After a few minutes ride, as we merged onto the H1 heading West, Anthony told me to look out the front window.
I saw the sun bursting through clouds, this symbol so tender and familiar to me, its rays falling like a gushing waterfall from Heaven to Earth, illuminating our path and flooding my heart with a deep, profound peace. My mind suddenly filled with music.
Here is Hope
MARY: He who healed our sorrows
Here was bruised and broken
He whose love no end knows
Here was forsaken, Left all alone.
Here despair cries boldly,
Claiming this its vict’ry.
Sweeter peace enfolds me:
Hope did not die here,
But here was given.
Here is Hope.
He who was rejected,
He knows well my longing
He, so long expected,
Carried our burdens,
Bore ev’ry sorrow:
Here is Hope!
CHOIR: Here is love unbounded
Here is all compassion
Here is mercy founded!
MARY: Hope did not die here,
But here was given;
And ours is the vict’ry.
Here is Hope.
(“Here Is Hope” by Rob Gardner)
We drove our doggie home. He remains unchanged. But just like every descent into soul-wrenching grief, I am changed. Hope did not die here, but here was given. And ours is the victory because He is Hope.
I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I have moved 64 times and have not tired of experiencing this beautiful earth! I love the people, languages, histories/anthropologies, & especially religious cultures of the world. My life long passion is the study & searching out of religious symbolism, specifically related to ancient & modern temples. My husband Anthony and I love our bulldog Stig, adventures, traveling, movies, motorcycling, and time with friends and family.
❤❤❤❤
Thank you!
My dearest Delisa, I love every word you have written. I am saddened by the reason for your writing and pray that by sharing you can heal quickly from this sense of loss.
I prayed to Heavenly Father tonight that heaven will be filled with ALL of those who were so dear to us in our earthly lives. I have wept today as I held a tiny baby bird in the palm of my hand as it returned home to Heavenly Father. It was so tiny. Much more tiny than the other 4 sparrows in the nest. It had fallen or been pushed out of the nest 3 times and had fallen onto the neighbor’s cement porch from the nest that had been built over the top of the porch light. It had fallen 3 times. I had carefully put it back in nest twice but this time it was so badly injured I took it home to cuddle it and hopefully comfort it for it had to be in pain. I felt horrible pain for God’s tiny helpless creature.
I am so grateful for the plan of salvation. I testify it includes Stig and Wellington and Lola and the tiny baby bird. I’m counting on meeting then again someday when I return home. In the meantime I’d better “shape up and fly right” if I’m going to have the privilege of seeing them again.
Thanks for sharing such a beautiful message!! Poor little sparrow!!! I love your beautiful, compassionate heart. Thanks for including us in your prayers. You’re in mine, too.
❤. It seems strange that to really know joy you must experience sorrow. God is good that way I guess. Love ya
Truth! To know the opposites in all things. Love you!
Beautifully written. You touched my own griefs with hope. Thank you.
Thanks sweet friend. Hope you know how much you’re appreciated!
A friend of mine, Karen Lambert, posted your blog to my Facebook page (Jul 13th) after I earlier posted a public request for prayers for my miniature pinscher, Chester who was about 12 years old. At recent checkup at his vet, everything looked really great except for an uti which he was sent home with antibiotics to treat with orders to return 2 weeks later for a recheck. I felt impressed then to have his lab work checked as well since it had not been done since last fall. He had signs of kidney renal failures and his breathing sounded odd to the vet. I made an appointment after the 4th of July weekend to have her check with an xray and she noticed his liver looked larger than it has before. His heart still looked enlarged as it did back last fall. They never heard any heart murmurs or any other sounds that were abnormal. I went to have an ultrasound done from a specialist that really did not explain his odd breathing. He was still being active – eating, drinking, etc.. Excited to go out, to the dog park, Chick-fil-a, etc. On Friday, July 17, half-hour after I got back from picking up my roommate from work, he started to act like he did not know where he was, wandering around the house. He went downhill rapidly from there. His heart was racing, I heard gurgling sounds from his lungs (I was listening through my own stethoscope). I was terrified and heart broken all at the same time. I knew it was time to say “see ya later” to my little buddy who has been there for me over the past 11 years. We even gave him a priesthood blessing, but I knew it was time. On Saturday afternoon, my roommate, myself and Leo (boxer lab) went in to end his suffering. We did take him to Chick-fil-a for one last chicken, to his favorite dog park, as well as his home. Even Pet Smart was his favorite place to visit.
It was the hardest thing I ever had to do. I held him in my arms as the drugs were administered. It hurts so much. Thank you for your experience that you had! I know I will see him again because of the Savior’s gift to the world. When I feel down and depressed, I say a prayer to Heavenly Father to help me get through this and that Leo will be okay.
Oh, Terry! My heart breaks for your loss and I cried for your sorrow! Thanks for sharing your experience and your incredible faith and hope. And thanks for appreciating our experience. That means a lot and reminds me that we really are all here to walk with each other back home.