After many visits to the doctors, an excessive number of X-rays, biopsies, blood tests, and a trip across state lines to a cancer specialist, it was concluded that the prognosis was poor.  The head of surgery offered more bloodwork, an echocardiogram to determine whether she could tolerate the chemotherapy, and amputation of her leg - all at extravagant cost.  This, he said, would bestow upon her - or us - a 50% chance that she'd live longer… that is, if no other illnesses were to be added to the long series she had already suffered.  I wanted to give Sweetpea that chance, but I had no supporters, and no way to raise the thousands of dollars necessary for this new glimmer of hope.

            I gave her calcium pills daily, and took her for long walks at night to keep her leg strong.  A broken bone would mean an abrupt end to Sweetpea's existence - something I couldn't tolerate.  I gave her all the love and attention I had in my soul, but she didn't understand - she didn't know what cancer was, or that her life was like the sun descending into an ever darkening sky.  One rainy evening I carried the shepherd onto the bed, and sat up petting her.  It was the first time her eyes ever stared back into mine for so long - she wasn't inquisitive - it was some sort of appreciation and wonder.

            At first the pain could be controlled with aspirin.  The pills enabled her to stand on the enlarged, deformed leg.  But as the bony tumor grew at an increasing rate, it became difficult - at times impossible, for her to make it up and down the stairs.  I carried her.  She strained to keep the leg raised up off the floor, but it was awkward - she had always been arthritic in her other paws.    

A week passed, and the tumor became so developed that the leg appeared grossly disfigured, her toes were swollen, and blood oozed onto her tan and white fur.  The vet told me that the growth of bone had cut off her circulation, that the vital red fluid was trapped and had nowhere else to go.  "Two weeks," I thought.  "I'll give her just another two weeks."  I drove her once more to her doctor and asked him to give her antibiotics.  He paused for a moment.  "That's not what she really needs," he answered.  "She's in so much pain that if she was human, she'd be demanding Morphine every hour."  I couldn't stop the tears from forcing themselves out; I felt pressure in my eyes, and a blockage in my throat.  "You have to take the pain now, instead of her," he said.  My hands swept across Sweetpea's face and neck - tears spilled onto her silky blonde fur.  Still, she didn't understand.  I tried to stop crying, but it was uncontrollable, like an unrelenting rainstorm.  Sweetpea licked my face. She could see that I was upset, she just didn't know why.     

            The vet seemed impatient.  I wanted to be with Sweetpea for as long as I could, to make the time she was alive stay with me forever, to hold her in my grasp and in my memory.  It was hard to comfort my baby whose only concern was to leave the vet's office, return home, and take a nap.  I was somewhat embarrassed about crying, and turned my head, while my hands mechanically pet her golden fur.  "Do you want to watch?" the vet asked.  "I just give her an injection, and she'll drift blissfully off to sleep."

            "No!"  I couldn't tolerate the thought of seeing her die.  I ran out of his office and hurried to the car.  Tears streamed down my cheeks as I rode home; it was so hard for me to concentrate on driving, I nearly hit a boy riding a bicycle in the street. 

            I sat on the couch for a while.  The quiet in the house was maddening.  I began thinking that another dog would cheer me up - I needed another pet around, to fill the emptiness in my heart and in my house.  My mother came over, and the two of us rode to the local SPCA.  I looked for the canine that most resembled Sweetpea.  I passed kennel after kennel, gate after gate - there were dogs of every breed and size.  Some barked, others appeared indifferent, some wagged their tails and lowered their heads, having a friendly hopeful look, appealing to visitors for a home.  The place was a racket of people and animals.  Finally, I spotted a German shepherd.  I checked the tag, and she was female.  I decided that I’d found the closest possible match to Sweetpea.

            Because I was in such a state of sorrow, still crying uncontrollably for most of the duration, the SPCA staff was concerned about my judgement, so I had to "interact" with the large animal for hours before I could take her home.  They told me to walk her on a leash to be certain I could control her.  At the halfway point, when I stopped to turn around, Dora jumped on my chest, and gave me several cheerful, eager licks on the face.  It was then that I knew that dog was for me. 

            That night, I took a pill to help me fall asleep.  Sometime during the late hours of morning, Dora pounced on me and licked my face until I woke up.  Groggily, I rose and saw that her water dish was empty.  "She drinks a lot more than Sweetpea," I thought, filling the metal bowl with cold tapwater.  I returned to bed, and woke up feeling tired and depressed.  As I proceeded down the stairs, I saw a trail of yellowish cotton material leading to the living room, where I found the remains of three of my stuffed animals.  Dora had a wild, crazed look in her eyes, and began running from room to room, jumping on each piece of furniture.  I proceeded to the kitchen to make coffee, and was shocked: the garbage pail was dumped on its side, the contents chewed to shreds, and scattered all over the kitchen and dining room floor.  "Bad!" I yelled at Dora, raising my hand, threatening to slap her.  She was scared and ran, defending her rear end.  I forgot my instinctive anger, and reluctantly cleaned the kitchen floor.

            The wrecked garbage was a day-to-day event, as well as chewing up my stuffed animals, the TV antenna, and any other objects within her reach.  I could see that insane appearance of Dora's eyes, just before she ran rampant through the house, acting excessively playful and destructive.  I pictured my new dog with that crazed and wild look, savagely tearing through the contents of the kitchen pail while I slept.  One day I left her home alone for an hour, and she destroyed the arm of my favorite chair - split open the cloth, and pulled out a mass of stuffing.  I was dismally learning what types of things Dora liked to chew.

I developed the habit of lying and sleeping on the couch all day, and Dora lay at my feet on the sofa with me.  I appreciated her company - it seemed that she was commiserating with me.  Since this was the time of my holiday lay-off from work, I had the leisure of this depression, and in fact I was entitled to it.  I loved Sweetpea, more than any other pet, perhaps more than any other person in the world, and I watched her die each day of a horrible disease, powerless to help, or retaliate against the hated cancer.       

Dora was chosen to take her place, and this would be quite a difficult job for this silly dog, who I couldn't help regarding a "big devil."

One day, I felt benevolent, and rose from the couch with great effort; I wanted to treat Dora to a can of chunky dog food.  I reached into the cupboard and pulled out "Beef, Bacon, and Cheese" flavor.  That had been Sweetpea's favorite.  Instantly tears rushed from my aching eyes - I couldn't suppress it.  Dora looked quizzically at me.  With difficulty, I turned to her and said, "I'm upset about another little doggie."  I was surprised that the shepherd appeared happy to hear this - it was as if my speech enlightened her, that she fully comprehended.

            Weeks passed, and slowly, gradually, I began to emerge from the depression.  I was preparing to return to work.  I gathered Sweetpea's things together: her favorite dark-green colored blanket, full of dog hair and holes from her teeth, her old collar, and a couple favorite toys that I just couldn't pass on to Dora.  Also, I put away the X-rays I’d stolen from the vet.  Dora followed me to the basement and watched me put them in the cabinet and slide the door shut.  She sat and wagged her tail, panting and looking up at me; it seemed that, again, she had that look of comprehension. 

     Something occurred to me that had that ring of truth to it, that intuitive insight that just couldn't be wrong: I would never love Dora as much as I had Sweetpea.  It wasn't Dora's fault, and of course, it wasn't fair to her.  But I had been so devoted to Sweetpea, with all her illnesses - arthritis, hip dysplasia, tumors on her spleen, which was removed, the bone cancer, too many surgeries - and she was gone, and would never return to me.  I could never risk losing something so precious to me again.