Note # 61 – Sir Gavin the Stouthearted and the Kindness of Strangers

He was called by a great many names — around our house he was known variously as Mr. Gavin, Gavers, Captain Fancypants, Buddy Boo Bear and even Mr. Boo, but I don’t think any name suited him quite as much as the one my D&D group gave him: Sir Gavin the Stouthearted.

And stouthearted he was — fiercely protective, constantly vigilant (he saved us from many backyard bunnies and countless Amazon delivery people) — but he was also a cuddly snuggle bug and a total mommy’s boy (and since he had two mommies, I guess that worked out pretty well for him.)

He loved to have his tummy rubbed, he looked incredibly dashing in a bow tie and he walked into every room as if he owned it — tiny chest puffed out, all but winking at the ladies and unleashing the full power of his spaniel charm.

Of course, we thought we’d have more time with him — but we always think that, don’t we?

In the end, he got very sick so suddenly — probably a bone marrow cancer that caused his blood cell counts to plummet. The day before we noticed that anything was even amiss, he took me on a 3 km tour of the neighbourhood, sniffing all the smells, trotting happily along, his spectacular tail aloft. It was warm and sunny, a golden day. By the next night, we were waiting in the parking lot of the emergency veterinary hospital until the wee hours to hear any word of his condition. Three days later, when it was clear that he would not recover we decided to let him go.

There is a moment, however, that has stuck with me, that I want to share.

The veterinarian caring for Gavin on his last day in ICU was Dr. Niu and he had called in the afternoon to tell us that he was worried that Gavin’s condition was deteriorating and he suggested that we might want to come and visit him, as he wasn’t sure he’d make it through the night. He said he was so sorry he didn’t have better news, but I thanked him for his honesty. We realized then that it was time to make the decision to prevent Gavin from suffering a needlessly painful death, so we left immediately for the vet hospital. On the way, I phoned to tell them we were coming and that we’d decided to authorize the euthanasia. The nurse said that Dr. Niu’s shift had ended but that there would be another vet on Gavin’s case.

When we arrived at the hospital, they ushered us into a room to wait and said the vet would bring Gavin in shortly. To our surprise, Dr. Niu entered, cradling Gavin in his arms like a baby. He’d stayed on, despite his shift being over, to give Gavin (and us) this last bit of care. He let us have a private moment with our sweet boy and said to take as long as we wanted and to ring for him when we were ready.

When he came back, he explained gently what he was going to do and what was going to happen. We held Gavin in our arms and kissed him and petted him and told him what a good boy he was and how he’d made our lives infinitely better by being our dog. And then he just drifted off.

We cried a bit more and this lovely man, who had worked a full day at the busiest emergency hospital in the city sat there on the floor beside us, silently supporting us, just being a steadfast witness to all the love and grief and heartbreak, as if he had nothing more important to do.

After a while, I said to him, through my tears, “We’re so sad because Gavin was a really great dog.”

“Was he?” Dr. Niu said. “What was he like? Tell me about him.”

And so we told him about how opinionated Gavin was and how he loved his toys so much and how he would stash them all over the house in his various beds. We told him how the Humane Society had said that he was unadoptable, but a no kill shelter had saved him. We told him all of his favourite foods and how he could balance on his back legs to beg for treats. We told him about his collection of hand-knitted sweaters and about that one time that he’d found an entire bratwurst sausage on the street and carried it around in his mouth even though it was almost bigger than his head.

And Dr. Niu smiled and laughed and listened to every word.

It’s been a few weeks now since we lost our sweet boy; the shock has worn off and the grief has settled in. But thanks to Dr. Niu the thing that is emblazoned in my memory of that day is not the sadness of losing Gavin, but instead the astonishing kindness that he showed us. I can’t even imagine the stresses that Dr. Niu and his colleagues had to deal with the day that we said goodbye to Gavin. And yet he stayed with us, he was kind and gentle, and he listened with love.

It made all the difference to us.

Hug your precious pets and just try to be kind, okay?

P.

P.S. “Blessed companion, adored friend…now may he rest. Forever remembered.” Goodnight, Mr. Boo. Love you forever…