My friend
This weekend, yesterday to be exact, I lost my best friend to cancer; she was my dog, but my friend nonetheless. My dog’s name was Ikea and she was only ten years old…
I cannot write and say that I didn’t notice something was a little off with my companion. She was getting tired very quickly during our weekly Sunday walks, I could feel her spine, and there were even times when she lost her balance. However, she seemed perfectly fine, and was acting like herself.
The year prior Ikea (kea, I often called) had surgery, her breast had enlarged and needed to be cut off. The veterinarian told me that she had breast cancer and that they were ready to operate if I was ready, I said “I’m ready”. During this time I decided to let the veterinarian do the basic test that they either needed to do or suggested. After the surgery Kea seemed perfectly fine, a little drugged, but fine.
Yesterday as I prepared to take her for a walk she came out of her dog house slowly and it was then that I noticed the cancer had returned, perhaps it never really left. Kea had lost weight dramatically, so much in fact that her skull could be felt. She was unable to walk, trouble breathing, very thirsty, and a strange odor, some symptoms of dog cancer.
As my mom, myself, and everyone in my house scrambled to find a ride to get her to the hospital Kea rested her head beside me, sometimes resting it on the floor. Finally around 3 p.m. my mom found someone to take me and my sister’s father to the hospital on the way there I held Kea while telling her that I was not going to let anything happen to her, that I was right there with her.
We arrived at the hospital where my sister’s father hopped out and ran to get the veterinarians. I’m not sure what he told them specifically, but they already had the option of putting her to sleep open. I filled out the paper work, not knowing where my friend was, or how scared she must have been.
“Do you want to be present?” the receptionist asked.
“Yes” I replied.
I waited in a small room, boxes of tissues were already waiting, and Kea was pushed in too weak to really put up a fight with these unfamiliar hands touching her. The entire story was told to the doctor, who had already had the needles, and told me what it was he was going to do.
“First injection will put her to sleep; the second will stop her heart.”
I held Kea’s head and patted it repeatedly as I told her how sorry I was, how her pain was my fault, and how I should have paid more attention to her. How we had good times chasing the squirrels and cats and as I went on with these funny tales, the doctor uttered the words that I didn’t want to her…
“She’s gone.”
My house is quiet now, Ikea is gone, and it hurts so much.









