I recall it being an unseasonably cold day. Colder in temperature than we were all ready for and colder, too, in terms of the way the universe hurled harsh reality at us – something else we were all certainly not ready for.
I stood, shivering (for so many reasons) on East 64th Street, wearing my obligatory-corporate-girl-“take me seriously” peacoat. I a deep breath. And then one more. The doorman, who would look more appropriate at the Ritz Carlton than here, did his job well, beating me to the heavy, imposing, enormous glass doors. His smile was gracious and I knew I would always remember it, remember him, remember this moment, remember this day. I walked past him into the small, carefully designed lobby of Sloane Kettering Memorial Hospital to the well-put-together greeter at the mahogany reception desk. It took all my strength not to vomit on her Tiffany adorned hand. She pointed me towards the elevator, whispering (why whispering?) the directions I had to follow once the doors opened on the fourth floor. She provided me with the information I needed to meet my father for his first appointment with his oncologist. For some unexplained reason, I hated her for that.
And, to think, it was barely a month ago my mom and I started paying attention to Benny’s incessant barking, well, really howling, at my father’s lower back. Why it took so long for us to heed Benny’s obvious warning I don’t know. That silly little beagle had my father’s back (now, almost literally) since the very first day they met at St. Dominick’s Dog Adoption Sunday. Benny (the name he was given by his abusive former owners) ran over to my Dad as soon as we walked into the church basement and didn’t leave his side for two hours. Other potential foster families would sidle over to Benny. They would extend a hand. They would squat down. One more gregarious fellow tried to playfully to crawl (on his stomach!!) over to Benny making some sort of weird guttural sound. I think he was attempting a comforting noise but he sounds like a wounded animal. Each time Benny just sat calmly and looked up at my Dad. As if to say “Well, are you going to intervene here? Are you going to tell these folks to back off? Tell them Im already yours?” Of course, my Dad relented. So, we always say Benny picked my Dad to go home with. Not the other way around.
Benny the Beagle looked just the way a beagle should. He had short, stumpy legs, long, soft ears, a broad head and the cutest gumdrop nose. He was expectedly merry but at times seemed to take himself quite seriously, walking determinedly following an unfamiliar scent with his square muzzle and strong chest low to the ground. When his large, benevolent hazel eyes would focus on a fixed point, we all knew he had some single-minded yet secret mission in mind. Over the years we had all witnessed, and often times benefitted, from Benny’s unearthing of lost items, dead rodents and – interestingly - illnesses and ailments. We knew that beagles were renowned for their fantastic sense of smells, but we had no idea any dog would have the ability to sniff out disease.
It started about five years ago. My Grandma Mary, my only surviving grandparent, joined us for Thanksgiving as usual. Benny spent the latter half of the evening relentlessly barking at Grandma Mary. He wedged himself between Grandma Mary and my sister, Angela, on the sofa and started a bark that devolved into a low, primal howl. Benny’s little but powerful head jutted out just past Grandma Mary’s left shoulder and remained there for a full hour until she keeled over clutching her chest. Major heart attack. In the flurry of activity that ensued that evening – and through the rest of the holidays – we forgot about Benny’s continuous barking. Until it happened again.
A few months later, Benny and I were at the local dog park. He was making his usual, frantic rounds within the confines of the chain-linked fence when suddenly he froze. It was so abrupt that, at first, I thought Benny suffered an injury. But, as I watched, he began slowly, very slowly, lowering his boxy little head to the ground and then I heard it. The familiar low rumble. Then I saw the fierce look in his eyes. If I didn’t leash him up, open the gate and allow him to drag me into the nearby woods, I have no doubt he would have clawed his way through. About 100 yards into the thick shrubs, we found her. Later we found out her name was Emma. A six year old diabetic who had wandered off. Unbeknownst to her babysitter, Emma passed out under a tree because that same babysitter neglected to give her insulin.
The following year, it was my turn. My right arm had been hurting for a few days and was becoming increasingly painful. Since I did not see any tear in my skin, did not feel any bites and I had not been outdoors, I handled it the way I did most problems – I patiently waited for it to go away on its own. Anyway, I figured I banged it, injured myself and not realized, as I had done so many times in the past at the restaurant I worked at. I’m pretty prone to klutziness. But when Benny started doing his thing I decided I could no longer ignore it. Turns out, I had acquired cellulitis that would have gotten increasingly worse, even caused permanent nerve damage, had I waited longer to treat it. The doctor even felt an IV of antibiotics was needed. It seemed I let it linger for too long to be eradicated with oral meds.
Over the years, we got used to Dr. Benny’s diagnostic powers. It just became part of who he was. Just another quirky part of his personality that we eventually all took for granted. Like so many other things. Yes, Benny only ate his dinner when someone else was eating theirs. Yes, Benny liked to sleep with his head on a pillow. Yes, Benny did not like to stick his head out of the window during a car drive like other dogs. Instead he sat smack in the middle of the back seat focusied on the traffic in front. And yes, Benny could smell when you were sick. For friends, families and even some uncomfortable strangers Benny sniffed out three different types of cancer, a hernia, a stroke, countless less-than-tragic illnesses and one well-hidden rash.
For a couple of days Dad had been complaining about an uncomfortable sensation in the general mid-section area. Actually, “complaining” is way too strong of a word. My father did not complain. To “complain” one would have first to at least “acknowledge” and when it came to physical symptoms that is something my father, Gino, did simply not do. So, it is more accurate to say that the collective “we” (meaning my mom, my grandma, my sister and myself) began to notice that Dad was having trouble. There was something slightly askew about his gait. And, yes...he did seem to be walking a little bit slower, didn’t he?
They say there is a first time for everything, and the women of the family did something unprecedented: we waited for Dad to tell us. We learned, after many years, many fights and lots of hurt feelings, that forcing my Dad into a conversation he was not ready to have was only frustrating for everyone involved. Anyway, it always seemed to make Dad hold his thoughts even closer.
A mere two days after we agreed to just let Dad be for a while, he confided in us, at dinner that no one could then eat, that he was experiencing what had developed into actual pain for more than two days. We were just at the point in the conversation that we were going to try to convince him to go to the doctor sooner, rather than later, when Benny sat down next to my Dad on the sofa and again began his low growl with his face basically imbedded between my Dad’s back and the cushion. Then, Benny too took a new approach. He bit the back of my Dad’s shirt and pulled it until it ripped. We all witnessed it. We all knew what it meant. My Dad looked around at his daughters, his mother and his wife and quietly said “I’ll call the doctor tomorrow.”
I was holding my father’s hand, that cold winter day, on the fourth floor of Sloane Kettering Memorial Hospital when his compassionate oncologist rolled himself closer to us on one of his office chairs to let us know Dad was already in stage four of primary liver cancer. It was a shock to all of us. I really wish Benny could have been there because I know, it would not have been a shock to him. And we all could have used a little bit of Benny just then.
Like all families, our life went on. There were marriages, babies, moves, divorces and, unfortunately, too many sickness, in my opinion, for one family. And the whole time, there was Benny. The happy, playful, always under-foot Benny peppering us all with truly unconditional love.
And like all dogs, his life went on as usual with us as well. There were play dates with other neighborhood dogs, walks to the park, grooming appointments and once, a photo shoot for a magazine advertisement that was never published. Until one early morning, Benny crawled off into a dark corner of the second floor guest room – all alone - and began a deep, steady growl that lasted for two days. When my mom finally called me, I had trouble deciphering what she was so upset about through the tears. Benny had finally diagnosed himself. Our long-time nvet, Dr. Mark, confirmed, also through tears a few days later that Benny had rapidly progressing stomach cancer. The pain would only get worse. We laid Benny to rest exactly one week after we lost my father.
I hope that wherever my Dad and his devoted friend Benny are, they never have to listen to or utter and another howl of pain.
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