We Should All Be So Lucky

by Lee LeFever | Sep 4, 2024 | Pets

It’s been a sad phase for us lately. We lost Maybe, our 10-year-old Bernedoodle last week. The essay below is about loving, enjoying, and saying goodbye to our canine friends.

In 2013, Sachi and I considered getting a second dog. I asked her, “If you could combine two dogs, what would you want?”.

She thought briefly and said, “A cross between a poodle and a Bernese mountain dog.” I did a quick web search. This was the moment we learned about the existence of a Bernedoodle. These are large dogs, sometimes over 100 pounds, with the poodle features of intelligence, low shedding hair, and hypoallergenic. The Bernese side added goofiness, color, and good nature. It seemed like a fit.

One of the reasons to get a second dog was to have two. Our dog Bosco was 4 years old and we wanted him to have a playmate. Also, we love dogs and wanted more. A big question loomed: how would Bosco react?

The Bernedoodle puppy arrived via air freight from a family in Ohio. At the airport, we found multiple puppies waiting for new owners. Inside a medium-sized crate was a tiny black ball and we named her “Maybe”. I wish the name had a rich story, but it came from a dog-friendly hotel that listed the names of arriving “guests”. Sachi, in particular, fell in love with the name.

Bosco, a lab and springer spaniel mix, was a good big brother. He was patient with the annoying puppy and they became attached at the hip. I felt bad for him, at times, because she would NOT leave him alone. I asked a vet friend, “How long will she keep this up?” Her answer: 2-3 years. Poor Bosco.

Being a little sister, Maybe played a supporting role. Bosco was extremely connected to us in the way that labs can be. He was more human than most dogs and you could see it in his face.

The Trip, The Trouble

Within a year or so, Sachi and I planned a big trip. We would pack both dogs in our car, drive from Seattle to Charleston, SC, and stay for a few months. We worked from home and wanted to take advantage of making our temporary home somewhere else, somewhere very different. We planned for months and counted the days with growing excitement.

About 20 days before departure, Bosco was diagnosed with canine lymphoma, a terminal cancer in dogs. Everything changed. The first chemo protocol didn’t work and we faced a grim reality: he would pass in a matter of months. We were crushed.

We decided that the trip to Charleston would be his swan song. The new “rescue” chemo put him in remission and he seemed normal. We could pretend, for a couple of months, that he was fine.

The Asterisk

It was a surreal experience to be on this amazing trip with so much to see and do, yet always knowing that your dog is going to die soon. I call this “the asterisk”.

At the time I had problems with anxiety and my mind always found a way to worry or discount the future. The asterisk is the constant reminder that tempers any happiness. It goes like this: What a fun day at the beach* [Bosco is dying]. Living in Charleston is such a treat* [Bosco is dying]. The asterisk steals joy and my anxious brain could not let it go.

Just after New Year’s in 2016, Bosco died in our temporary Charleston home. He was five years old. Over the months of worry and sadness, we came to terms with the inevitable and saw his passing as a relief. He never knew pain. We did the best we could.

Maybe’s Rise

Starting then, Maybe rose to prominence in our lives. Being so focused on Bosco, I didn’t appreciate Maybe as much. She was a wallflower in a chaotic situation and it took time for her to become the star. We returned home to Seattle with one dog and a new beginning. Without Bosco around, we could experience and appreciate Maybe from a new perspective.

Maybe seemed to come out of her shell. She filled Bosco’s role and I came to know her better than before. In human terms, it felt like Bosco was the popular jock and Maybe was the valedictorian. You didn’t have to worry about her. She listens, gets straight A’s, and will go to a good school. That said, she was very vocal and always let you know how she was feeling. We called her “Maybe, Lady Barks-a-Lot, Duchess of Barkington“.

Two Dogs, Again

Within a couple of years, we decided to become a two-dog household once again. We went back to the same Bernedoodle breeder, got Piper, and the cycle started over. This time, Maybe was on the front lines of Piper’s constant attention.

Maybe was a naturally sweet and we told her that often. Her sweetness came out when she was around puppies. When we brought Piper home, we were on the floor lavishing her with attention. Without any prompting, Maybe brought over a toy and placed it gently in front of Piper. She nudged it closer and closer until Piper noticed. Then she barely moved so Piper didn’t get scared.

It was her nature to be gentle and kind to people and puppies.

Piper and Maybe became fast friends and were inseparable. Over a few years, we moved them both from Seattle to our yurt-shaped house on Orcas, a tiny guest house, and finally to Flattop. Maybe was the leader and Piper was the follower. In the human sense, Piper was the cheerleader: pretty and enthusiastic.

Her entire life, Maybe was possessive of toys. Even as a puppy, she bossed around Bosco if he was too interested in a toy. It wasn’t aggression, but assertiveness. That toy is hers and it’s her right to take it. This was Piper’s reality, too. If she showed too much interest in us, or a toy, Maybe would rush in and bark in protest. We would say “Watch out Piper, here comes the fun police.”

As of 2024, Maybe was 10 years old, and Piper was 6. When a dog reaches double digits, it becomes clear that most of their life is behind them. Maybe was surprisingly spry for a geriatric dog and able to jump easily onto the bed, into the truck, etc. She loved to chase Piper around the garden and fetch a purple ball we’d had for years. In the last six months, I noticed her fetching had become slower. She got up from naps with a bit of soreness. I could relate.

Sachi and I both wanted Maybe to last forever but knew, within a few years, we’d have to say goodbye. Having been through so much with Bosco, it filled us both with dread. Dog owners often face the same end-of-life dilemma: wanting a dog to live as long as possible, but not at the expense of the dog’s happiness and well-being. Too often, in my opinion, owners can’t let go and wait too long.

Knowing that Maybe was aging, we both spoiled her. She got human food when Piper wasn’t looking. She was loved and kissed and coddled every day. Her soulful eyes always seemed to send a message of love. She wanted for nothing and that was exactly what we wanted.

On Monday, August 19th, I took a break from work and took the dogs outside to play. As usual, Maybe was barking and wanting to fetch. So, I grabbed the purple ball and threw it. As sometimes happens, she picked it up and refused to bring it to me. So I walked across the garden, picked it up, and turned to Piper to get her interested. When I turned around, Maybe was lying on her side with her legs spasming, in the throes of a seizure. I felt so helpless. All I could do was say “Oh Maybe, Oh Maybe, no no no.” Within a few seconds, she was gone. No breathing, no pulse. I was frantic and not sure what to do.

I called Sachi who rushed home from work. I led her back to our bedroom where I laid Maybe down in a blanket on the floor. As she reached the floor I wanted to soothe Sachi’s emotions and said, “I was with her. She was never in pain. She was happy and then she was gone.” With tears in her eyes, Sachi said something I’ll never forget, “We should all be so lucky”.

We cried for the rest of the day and talked about Maybe’s life. We discussed the inevitability of death and that it comes for us all. In this way, Maybe was fortunate and so were we. She made it ten years and they were good ones. We had so much fun together.

The end of Maybe’s life didn’t come with an asterisk. There was never a period of worry or stress about Maybe. She was a happy vivacious dog and then she was gone. We should all be so lucky.

R.I.P. Maybe. You were the best.