In Memory of Franklin

It’s a strange thing for a writer to have no words. But that’s the nature of the beast when it comes to grief. Grief is my least favorite emotion because it’s a tumultuous storm of all the negative emotions. It comes in waves, sometimes a gentle lapping and sometimes a tsunami, and there’s never a warning sign.

On March 20th, my husband and I made the decision to send our quirky, cuddly Scottish terrier mix, Franklin, over the Rainbow Bridge. I wish I could believe in a real Rainbow Bridge. It’s a comforting idea.

The one emotion I am free with this grief is guilt. We made the right decision, the merciful, humane decision. Selfishly, I would have loved to keep him around as long as possible. But within a matter of days, he would be in extreme pain. I made a promise to every dog I’ve owned that I would never let them needlessly suffer.

Exactly four weeks before, just after the giant snowstorm that devastated Texas, we sent Franklin to the vet with what we expected was a standard UTI. He did have a UTI, but it was likely as a result of prostate cancer. His prostate was very inflamed. The X-rays showed now metastasis. We opted to treat with anti-inflammatories and antibiotics and recheck in two weeks.

The infection improved, but his prostate did not. It was cancerous. Prostate cancer in dogs is rare, and it’s a death sentence. Chemo can keep a dog alive for a few extra months, but it comes with all the chemo side effects—and cost. Our wonderful vet, Dr. Ecker, broke the news that his prognosis could be anywhere from a month to close to a year, but most likely, it would be soon.

It’s a fast-progressing cancer. By the time it’s diagnosable, it’s too far progressed to do much of anything.

The anti-inflammatories worked for another week or so. Then Franklin started having some moments of pain. He tired quicker, and the crying increased. We got stronger pain medications, which kept him 85% comfortable for his last few days. We changed his recheck to his final appointment.

The last week of Franklin’s life was the happiest of his life. We threw him a Best Day Ever party. Friends came and brought him his favorite treats, new toys, and played fetch with him. Franklin lived for fetch. Our family got to say goodbye to him a couple days later when we realized that he only had a few days left. Another friend came over and brought him ELEVEN tennis balls. He’d never been so happy in his life. My best friend and her son came the day before he died to play and say goodbye.

The final morning, we took him to my mom’s. He got bacon and one final game of fetch. He was extremely happy till the very end.

But I don’t want to dwell any longer on those final moments. I want to remember the life he had with us.

Franklin appeared to me in a dream. It’s a weird thing for a skeptical atheist to say. But on a Thursday night in October 2014, I dreamed my now-husband and I had adopted, specifically, a Scottie mix. Scruffier than a full-blood Scottie.

I’ve never wanted a Scottish terrier. I’m a hound girl, through and through. And while we had been considering getting Darwin a sibling, we weren’t actively looking. I mentioned the dream to Michael Friday morning, as a “weird, right?” “Yeah, that’s weird.” We went about our day and forgot about it.

That night, I saw that the Humane Society was doing $5 adoptions that weekend as part of the ASPCA Megamatchathon. October is Adopt a Shelter Dog month. I clicked on the link, and the first dog I see is…a Scottish Terrier mix.

“Michael? Remember my weird dream about a Scottie mix last night?”

“Yeah.”

“Look.”

We had to get him.

The shelter was packed, and they were directing people one at a time to different areas of the shelter to start. That scruffy little terrier was in the second kennel on the hallway I was sent to. He was running back and forth wanting to play so badly, looking at the people on each side of his kennel. Everyone was ignoring him.

“That one.”

He came to me instantly. He wanted love and someone to play with. I met no other dogs. He was mine.

We took him to the pet store to get a new leash and collar then went to the park to introduce him to Darwin. We figured out immediately that for this new dog, who we named after Ben Franklin, Fetch Is Life.

Franklin was about 10 pounds overweight when we got him. His scruffy black and brindle fur was rough and dull. Within a week of good food, his scruff shined. He lost his weight really quickly with regular attention and no people food.

One time, I had stopped playing fetch while watching TV. He had a small ball that he had ripped off another toy. To get my attention, he dropped it directly in my wine glass.

Frank had severe anxiety, especially separation anxiety. We finally got him on medication for the last three or so years of his life. It made him pee on the floor, cry a lot, and occasionally destroy things, like my first edition of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.

But he brought us so much joy. The first time we took him to the dog park, he dropped his ball in front of every person there and barked to get them to throw it. He was irresistible to everyone there. We had to force him to take breaks because if he had his way, he’d go till his little heart gave out.

Franklin wasn’t particularly cuddly for the first six months we had him. See, he had been owner-surrendered twice. One time he was surrendered covered in abrasions. He cowered if we looked to dominant when we approached him.

Then he became a complete velcro dog. I wrote my first book on the couch with Franklin pressed against one thigh and Darwin against the other. He was my number one nap buddy. Somehow, the 25 pound thing took up a huge chunk of the bed.

He wasn’t all cuddles and fetch, though. He had a vendetta against every cat in the world. He killed two feral cats in our yard at different times. That’s how I learned why dogs shake their toys. He was surprisingly effective at it. Not a scratch or drop of blood on him. The first one was a little thing who didn’t stand a chance. The second one was a tomcat who could have easily escaped but tried his luck. He lost. While I was traumatized, Frank was very proud.

Later, his vendetta also included squirrels. He never caught one, thankfully. But two days after he died, he sent me a message. I was walking Darwin, and we saw a dead squirrel. It had clearly been caught by an animal and was very fresh. Most of the fur was still intact. The tail was bare but articulated and upright. It was positioned in a very unnatural way, staring right at me.

“I’m okay, Mom. I’m catching all the squirrels now.”

Franklin could make friends with any humans, but he wasn’t a fan of any other species. Going to the dog park was a two-person job because he had to go to the small dog side just so he wouldn’t pick a fight he couldn’t win with a large dog. Small dogs mostly weren’t with his time.

Six and a half years wasn’t nearly long enough. He was otherwise in impeccable health. We had expected three or four more years with him. (He was estimated to be about three when we adopted him.) He still played like a puppy even if he needed more breaks. But the last several years, he finally trusted us. His favorite person was Michael. He never cowered in those last couple years. He stopped even acting guilty when he got into trouble.

Franklin loved corn chips and peanut butter. He was dramatic. One time he strained a leg muscle. I rushed him to the emergency vet, where they gave him a pain shot and did an X-ray. They wrapped his leg in bandage tape and said he needed two weeks of crate-rest. Even once he was completely fine, he would not let us take off the tape without crying and thrashing. It took three people at the vet to hold him down just to get it off. We couldn’t pull stickers out of his feet. If we so much as looked like we were going to do something he didn’t like, he’d yelp like he was being tortured.

I miss him so much. I wanted him to teach my son how to throw a ball. I wanted him to curl up next to me while I feed my baby. But he won’t get to meet Franklin.

So, to my little Frankie, Frankenbutt, Corn Chip, Franklin Underfoot. I hope wherever your soul is, you are at peace. Keep chasing those squirrels. I love you forever.