A photo of Sam shortly after we got him. Note that the couch he's on is the one he destroyed/ingested a couple of weeks later. I've reserved this blog for all things Wilder. Tonight I'd like to reserve a little space for one of my other "kids."
Six years ago in December, my mom died quite suddenly. A month later, I accompanied my friend Karen to the pound so she could pick out a dog. Somehow, a few days later, I came home with one of my own: Sam. Though I didn't think it through at the time, I now know that I adopted a dog because I needed a distraction from my grief. I chose what had to be the biggest furry mess of the bunch because I needed a BIG distraction. And big he was. Ninety-plus pounds. A big black dog with a giant skull. There he sat in his pen, aloof, not making eye contact, thoroughly disinterested in anyone walking by. He was big and black, and big black dogs don't get adopted. He'd been there almost a month. I knew enough to know he was slated for euthenasia soon. "What about him?" I asked. "Don't even meet him unless you're seriously interested," the pound employee told me. Not exactly a ringing endorsement. And, indeed, at first he was dog with very few redeeming qualities. My saintly husband Jerry, who was my boyfriend at the time and therefore not contractually obligated to indulge my crazy notions, agreed to bring Sam home. For the first month at least, he crapped on the carpet in our breezeway nearly every day, the kind of messes that necessitate mouth-breathing and lots of water and cleaning solution. He destroyed our couch, eating a portion of it. He couldn't be in the same room as our cats for six-plus months without trying to tear them apart. He was, in short, what seemed to be an unreformable slobbering beast with dire separation anxiety issues and near Herculean strength. One day he tried to get out of his crate so desperately that his paws bled from the effort.
At some point, and I don't know when but it was after we relocated to Texas, a move that I think somehow proved to Sam that we were in it with him for the long haul and weren't going to give up on his sorry ass, he mellowed. He made friends with the cats. He stopped terrorizing inanimate objects. He could stay at home, alone, without having a wild-eyed come-apart. He even came to think of his crate as his safe haven and slept there every night. He turned into a normal dog, and then he turned into more.
In my view, Sam became damn near the best dog in the world. He was loving and gentle and listened -- most of the time --when you told him to do things. Sure, oftentimes he'd run to his bed when you wanted to let him outside, but even that was a sign of his undying devotion to Jerry and me. Though his separation issues were gone, he still wanted just to near us. I have no doubt to this day that Sam would die before he let Jerry or myself be hurt. He just wanted to be by our side, but not in a needy, pet-me-pet-me kind of way. I wish I could explain it, but he just became the kind of dog that people loved, and the kind of dog that those who knew before him marveled at. "I can't believe this is the same Sam," they'd say.
I guess it's obvious where this is leading. Tomorrow morning Sam has an appointment to biopsy a growth on his hip, and all signs lead to bone cancer. "It doesn't look good," the vet told me late this afternoon. And, indeed, Sam is already in a tremendous amount of pain (for which we now thankfully at least have meds). If the cancer is confirmed, our options are few. We'll discuss those with the specialists when the time comes.
I guess I just needed to write about Sam. Since Wilder has come into our world, he's been the center of it, and that of course is the way it should be. Sam has understood that and never acted out or acted different because of it. But before there was a Wilder, there was my Sam Dog. He was my kid. He saw me through the very worst time of my life and I saw him through his. He turns 8 a week from today and, for a dog with a head the size of his, I guess I should be OK with that.
But I'm not. I'm praying to God and St. Francis and anyone else that will listen that we can get another couple years, maybe more. There are few good things that come from the death of someone such as your mom. It ripped my world apart. But Sam coming into my life ... that was one of those things. By bringing him home, I gave him at least six more years, and it's one of the best things I've ever done. But he brought me much, much more. He is, after all, the best dog ever.
