Doc Holliday, 8, a black-and-white English cocker, passed from this life into the next a week ago Tuesday.
He entered our existence after the sudden death from heart disease of Little Bit. Believing the best way to deal with losing a beloved dog is to get another, we set out to find one.
We discovered him at a hunting preserve. Unlike Little Bit, a terrific retriever, Doc failed at hunting. He didn’t like gunfire and so was relegated to a small dog run, open to the elements, where he slept in a barrel filled with straw.
When we met him, he meandered across the field, atrophied by lack of exercise, sat on my foot and looked up with a hopeful demeanor. “Don’t you want to take me home?” Of course the answer was yes.
After arriving at his new abode shortly after New Year’s 2022, he discovered the bliss of the bed. What was this big box in the room near his kennel and soft warm pallet? Laid on the comforter, he rolled on his back and pumped his little legs with glee like he was swimming. His expression was pure joy.
Thereafter at night, he’d jump on the bed, lay claim to much of its surface, and wait to be moved aside. Many a time I’d wake to feel his snout on my ankle, his breathing measured and loud.
Doc was a happy creature. He greeted everyone with a wagging tail. He was the mayor of the local dog park, mingling with canine constituents and saying hello to their human caretakers, particularly Polly’s, the lady with treats.
He was a gentle soul. When our granddaughter Raleigh, then 2, met Doc, he was in his bed in the kitchen, one of his five places of repose around our house. Raleigh climbed in, and the two took their nap nestled together.
He was also a great traveler. He’d immediately fall asleep in the back seat. Why waste energy on the road? Save it for the destination. At dinner in Santa Fe, N.M., we received a call from the resort where we were staying. Doc had escaped our casita and made his way to an outdoor wedding reception to congratulate the newlyweds. Guests were feeding him. Would we mind if the staff kept Doc at the front desk pending our return?
In every Eden, there’s a serpent. Doc’s health had earlier been ignored. His teeth were rotted. He had heartworms, and before starting treatment, the vet wanted to quash a minor infection. Doc took eight weeks of antibiotics. The infection persisted. Another round of antibiotics followed. Same result. More-sophisticated bloodwork was ordered in October 2022.
It brought terrible news. Doc had stage 4 lymphoma and leukemia—a death sentence. Chemotherapy was an option; it would almost certainly fail but give us six months and the vet would tell us if he began suffering. Wanting time to say goodbye to our new pup, we agreed.
Eight weeks into chemo, good news. Doc’s bloodwork improved. Then a miracle: After nine weeks, total remission. Doc finished his 18-week cycle as a cancer-beating marvel.
For more than two years our little man provided unending amusement. He even became a performance artist. If ignored, he’d drag a ribbon of toilet paper across the bathroom and shred it.
But last fall, the cancer returned. Again, chemo. Again, he beat it. Until he didn’t. After Christmas, he was listless and weak. We thought he’d eaten something he shouldn’t have (hair ties were a favorite). When he didn’t recover by New Year’s, it was back to the vet. Terrible news: The lymphoma was back again. Nothing could be done.
Last week we sat on an examining-room floor as Doc shivered under blankets, his snout on my leg and eyes moving between Karen and me as if he was drinking us in while he could. I scratched his neck and cradled his chest as she told him he was a really good boy and we loved him.
