I said goodbye to my Sherman last Friday and kissed his soft muzzle for the last time.
I don't understand why this hurts the way it does. Not a word was exchanged between us besides my rudimentary commands – which he diligently obeyed every time. I guess there were deeper words spoken – ones that can never be heard, or at least not by anyone else besides the two of us.
I suppose this may be just therapy for me as I work through the loss of my best friend. It’s likely you may not find my story that interesting or amusing; or you might relate well to it through your own experiences. Either way, this is a special story to me – and I guess that’s what is important this time.
Sherman had been developing hip issues, like every senior golden retriever, over the last several years. Walks became more acts of willpower than enjoyment. The past six months or so, his hind legs seemed so disjointed from the rest of him. I always cringed when I watched him go down a long stairway, envisioning him doing involuntary somersaults as his hind legs seemed to lose a step and would become airborne – despite his attempts to slowly and carefully place each front foot as he descended. He had been stumbling more and more in the past couple months just walking down the hallway, let alone maneuvering up, down, or around objects.
Thursday he stumbled for the last time as I called him to go outside for his personal business, and he couldn’t get back up. He tried, but his hind legs could no longer support him. I tried to carry him, but he was either too proud or the pressure caused him too much pain (or both). I didn’t even know how I would support his back end while he did his business – despite knowing he wouldn’t tolerate such support from me.
I tried to make him as comfortable as possible. That night I slept by his side on the floor of the living room where we talked and snuggled for the last time. The next morning, Emily and I put Sherman on a blanket and “stretchered” him to the back of my car for his last ride.
As the two of us lay on the floor in the examination room, we talked more. After a few minutes, the vet came in with a shear and a syringe of pink fluid. Sherman willingly accepted the buzzing shear and waited patiently for the syringe. As the fluid was slowly injected into his vein, he gently laid head on my arm, took a few more breaths, and was gone.
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This is Sherman’s Story
I first became interested in dogs in 1984 when my father and I were members of Portland Mountain Rescue. One evening we assisted a volunteer K9 team searching for a body on the campus of Mt. Hood Community College in Gresham, Oregon. It was then I decided that if I ever had a dog, it would be involved in search and rescue.
In January 1988, soon after I started attending Oregon State University, I observed a meeting of a local 4-H group that specialized in seeing-eye dog puppy training. It was there I fell in love with the golden retriever. Later that year, the organization that sponsored the 4-H group had a fundraiser where they sold Christmas cards for the upcoming holiday. One of their cards was a pencil drawing of a beautiful golden retriever with a small package in its mouth. The title of the drawing was “Sherman.” It was then I knew everything about what would unfold six and a half years later.
I had just moved to Eureka, California in February 1995 to work for Louisiana-Pacific as the pulp mill’s safety coordinator. As I got to know others in my department, I expressed my interest in someday having a golden retriever. One of my co-workers happened to know some friends in Sebastopol, California (near Santa Rosa) who were breeding golden retrievers.
My wife and I met Sherman’s parents in April or May of 1995. His mother came from show stock, with her fine long hair; and his father, Gringo, came from hunting stock, stockier, a little redder and shorter hair. I remember as I petted Gringo being amazed and intimidated by how large his head was, and wondered if I could handle such a large dog. Just as we were about to leave and were talking with one of the breeders, we watched Gringo saunter through the property. Not understanding what was going on, the owner approached him, put his hand out, and an egg dropped from the dog’s mouth. Apparently he had visited the chicken coup and was sneaking away for a little afternoon snack.
Sherman was born June 4, along with eight of his siblings. A couple of weeks later, just as their eyes were opening, we came again to pick out our puppy. Although there were so many beautiful ones to choose from, one with a white star on the top of his head started climbing up my arm from the whelping box to my shoulder. It was then I knew I hadn’t chosen him; Sherman had chosen me. A few weeks later we brought Sherman home at six weeks of age.
Until Jeniene finished up her schooling at OSU, and while I was living in Eureka, Sherman and I would commute back to Corvallis every other weekend. I would put the seat down in the back of my Subaru Loyale and he would enjoy sticking his head out the window to either feel the wind rush by, or snap at the raindrops as they hit his face. Otherwise, he would lie in the back and put his face next to mine while I drove, or just curl up next to me in the passenger’s seat.
I remembered my desire for my dog to become a search & rescue dog. When he hit 6-months of age, and after talking with the local emergency manager, I found the local chapter of the California Rescue Dog Association (CARDA).
We enrolled in obedience training and started regularly training with the local CARDA group. Training for search and rescue begins with “runaways” where, while the dog is held by another person, the owner/handler runs from the dog to behind an object (tree, building, bush…). The dog is then released to find the handler and an awaiting treat. That progresses to a stranger running, which progresses to finding the stranger and coming back and signaling to the handler the dog has found the person, to blind searches where the dog must begin looking for human scent and zero in on the subject, to having a unique scent article that forces the dog to differentiate human scents.
The group’s leader, Inga Cordova, was amazed in that first meeting of Sherman’s capacity to understand the “game.” The game soon became Sherman’s passion. With just a whisper in his ear, “Do you want to play Search Dog?” his eyes would pop wide open, his ears would twitch, and he’d start shaking in excitement. The final command of “Go find!” would spring him into action.
CARDA’s training requirements were rigorous. To meet the organization’s standards for mission-ready status would typically take 3-4 years. Add to that most of the weekend evaluations were at least a six hour drive (one way), making the commitment even more arduous. During one of those long weekend trips, we were evaluated on “long down stays.” The object of this test is for the handler to put the dog in a down-stay, walk away, and disappear for 15-minutes. Sherman never was a big fan of balls and fetch, and this played to his advantage. Some of the things the testers would do to tempt the dogs out of their command were to throw balls, walk around the dogs, talk to the dogs, whistle, or anything else (without touching the dogs) to get them to break their command. Once Sherman saw me disappear, and after a moment of confusion, he just put his head down on his paws and watched the balls zoom past and the other dogs break their commands.
The house we lived in had a mail slot in the front door. Sherman didn’t hate the mailman. Actually he probably loved him because he always brought fun things to chew on. Most months we had to call the utility company to send us another bill because the first one…had been eaten by our dog.
On June 5, 1997 (a day after Sherman’s birthday), Emily came into our lives. We assumed Sherman would be the perfect big brother dog, allowing the new baby to pull on his jowls, yank his tail, and be used as a pillow. The moment we walked through the door for the first time with this wriggling, crying mass, Sherman headed to the furthest place in the house, and cowered under the end table. He wanted nothing to do with her. That next weekend, Sherman and I went for a long walk in the woods. It was there I told him that Emily was here to stay, that he would eventually come to the point of liking her, and that he was still my special dog. I know it’s silly since he didn’t understand any words I spoke besides “Sherman” or “Sherm,” but when we arrived home, he was a different dog from the one I had left with just a few hours earlier that morning. Although I knew he wasn’t thrilled with the new arrangement, he seemed to accept the new situation with greater resolve.
A couple months later, and after a little over a year training with CARDA, my employer relocated me to Northern Idaho. I didn’t know about local search groups until we ran into one of the organizers of Mountain West Search Dogs at a local sporting goods store in Coeur D’Alene, Idaho. Sherman and I tested and were immediately placed on their mission-ready roster.
There were many times when I would get a call in the middle of the night, would throw our gear in the back of the car, and Sherman and I would be off on a mission. Although we never were the ones to find the lost individual while on a real mission, during a search for an Alzheimer patient who had wandered off one frigid night in Spokane, Washington, we were given a scent article to help Sherman discriminate. At one point we found a dirt road in a neighborhood that Sherman found very interesting and wanted to follow. Since this would have forced us to leave our assigned search area, I called the command center to get permission to explore the area. We were told to stay within our assignment, but later found out the patient had gone down that road earlier that evening. You have to figure Sherman was calling me all sorts of uncomplimentary things for not listening to him when I called him off that trail.
Although he may have never found the victim of an official search, it’s not to say he was never called upon at a moment’s notice to search for someone – and find them. Although I was not around when this happened, my mother-in-law recounted this story as I was preparing this blog:
“We have our own story of search-dog Sherman when you weren't here but Kristi[my sister-in-law], J & E were with the dogs. My dad got sensitive about something and left the house in a huff. 30 minutes later and he wasn't back; my mother was having fits. Kristi found a pair of worn undershorts of my dad's, handled them through a plastic bag and shoved the scent in Sherman's face and nose. When given the command to "go find," he went bounding for the door, up the driveway and down road. Kristi was running to keep him in view; he found grandpa up Lakeshore Rd. sort of confused and lost, but he recognized Sherman! They strolled back to the Y in the road, met Kristi and continued on to the cabin. Sherman would not leave my dad's side. And evidently my dad kept a hand on Sherman, too!"When we moved to the Portland-area, I eventually found another K9 search and rescue group. Although I knew he was in no physical condition to do wilderness searches, Sherman and I met with them during a water-rescue/cadaver training session. Although it had been a few years since we “played search dog,” he responded to the cadaver scent as if on cue. The members of the group were impressed, but due to my work schedule or my inability to be called away from work, we weren’t able to continue pursuing that activity.
Like most dogs, he loved food, all kinds. As a puppy eating his kibble, he would literally gasp every time he took a bite. How he didn’t choke on it, I have no idea. His keen young hearing (he became all but deaf in his latter years) allowed him to hear a banana being peeled in the other room, and you’d soon have an admirer by your side with a puddle of drool at your feet. The same was true for carrots, dried salami, hot dogs, boiled liver (used for training purposes)…not to mention finishing off whatever remained in the bowl of ice cream you had just enjoyed.
Although Sherman was never allowed to jump on people, for the first half of his life until his hips started tightening up, I would be greeted every morning with my own “good morning hug,” just for me.
Some dogs enjoy the company of other dogs. Sherman was indifferent when it came to those of his kind. He would play with them for a short time, but then would tire of their antics and would come and hang-out with me. Humans were Sherman’s best friends. To him, a stranger was someone he had yet to meet. He loved everyone. One of the few rude things he would do in his younger years was to grab onto peoples’ clothes and try to pull them off. This was especially true when my parents came to visit – he adored my mom. As he went on in years, his excitement became more and more subdued with new people; that was until my parents came to visit a couple months ago from Minnesota. Despite the three years it had been since he had seen her, the moment my mom walked in the door and he saw it was her, he jumped up with all the excitement of a one year old puppy and started grabbing her clothes.
Considering all the opportunities he had, it’s amazing he died of old age. When he was approximately 6-months old, Jeniene called me at work to ask if I had thrown away my razor earlier that morning. I said I did, and she started crying. Apparently she found chewed up, blue plastic on the bathroom floor – Sherman had gotten into the trash and eaten the razor. We rushed him to the vet and upon viewing the x-ray, found the blade in his stomach. Three days later of a diet consisting of raw hamburger, white bread and milk, we were relieved he was still alive (no, I never found the razor…but then again; I never really looked that hard).
One of the regular family getaways is Lake Chelan where Jeniene’s family owns lakeside property. When we lived in Idaho we were only three hours from the lake, so in the summer we would go there most weekends. Sherman loved it there. He would jump for sticks, both for ones thrown as well as one just floating down the lake and retrieve them. One Saturday morning in the winter, I awoke wanting to know what Lake Chelan looked like in the winter, so we drove to the lake. As we pulled in, he and his canine sister, Moira, knew exactly where we were, rushed out of the van, and ran down to the dock. Reclamation drops the level of water every winter at Lake Chelan so far that the entire dock is out of the water. The next thing I see is Sherman on the dock in a down-position, paws over the edge, and looking down, trying to find the water. I knew his next instinct would be jump, and I screamed, “SHERMAN, NO!!!!!” Suddenly there was no dog; he had jumped 15 feet to the rocky lake bed below. I ran to him expecting to find a dog with at least two broken legs and perhaps head trauma, and all I found was a dog with a confused and embarrassed look on his face.
Someone once told me that golden retrievers play fetch until they drop from exhaustion. As implied earlier, whoever said that never met Sherman. Besides search and rescue, I had aspirations of him becoming a Frisbee dog. He understood the process of fetching, and would comply; but after a few throws realized the futility of the exercise, and gave up. Fetching in water, though, was a different matter. There he would literally keep jumping and swimming for objects to the point of exhaustion. One time at Lake Chelan he gave up looking for the stick I had thrown and decided to pursue some ducks on the water, and started swimming out into the lake, beyond the 100 yard no-wake zone, into the navigational waters. Fortunately he didn’t get hit by a passing boat or drown.
In 2001, shortly after moving the family to the Portland-area, Sherman developed a lump on the right side of his neck. It quickly grew into a tumor the size of a tennis ball, causing him to walk with his head tilted. The vet removed the tumor and the biopsy determined it was malignant. Opting to not start chemotherapy, which studies have shown limited success on dogs, the vet estimated he would be dead in two years.
One evening I let the dogs out for their evening business, before retiring to bed. The next morning I woke up with only one dog in the apartment – and it wasn’t Sherman. Not knowing what happened, I panicked; knowing we lived so close to a busy road, I imagined the worse. I went out into the apartment complex calling his name for what seemed like forever. Suddenly I heard a familiar barking and around the corner came Sherman, bounding toward me. Apparently, I didn’t get both dogs in the apartment before I closed the door. I must have been in a hurry since it was raining hard that night. Sherman found a light on in one of the other apartments and sat by the sliding door until the tenant saw him, let him in, and dried him off. He apparently spent a comfy night on the guy’s sofa watching TV. That sounded like a better deal than what he would have had back at home.
A few years ago, daily walks became difficult. His back legs and hips became sore on a more and more regular basis. After a little Internet searching, I found that the daily administration of canine buffered aspirin was typically prescribed as a first step in pain management for hip problems. I bought a bottle and started Sherman on it. It seemed to immediately do the trick until I noticed that his feces were black and tar-like. Knowing what digested blood looks like, I knew that the medication had irritated his stomach and immediately discontinued the aspirin. As the week passed by, Sherman was sleeping more and more. It eventually got to the point where it became difficult to awaken him. I took him to the vet and found that although a healthy dog’s red blood cell (RBC) (the blood cell that carries oxygen) count should be around 30, his was a 0.5. The vet gave Sherman a blood transfusion from his own dog and supplemented that with synthetic blood. A day later one of the junior veterinarians suggested I should put him down since recovery was unlikely. Three days later his RBC count was up to 15, and he was sent home to fully recover, only to not be able to take anything for his pain management. The vet assured me my attempt to control Sherman’s pain was exactly the same technique and dose he would have initially prescribed – it was just that Sherman’s sensitive stomach couldn’t tolerate it.
A year later, Sherman developed a lump on the left side of this neck. Before we had it removed, it spontaneously burst which left a lovely mess to clean up. Eventually you couldn’t pet him without finding masses of different sizes, dimensions, and firmnesses all over his body. He was developing another lump on the right side of his neck at the location of the first tumor, and there were several on the side of his chest, on the side of his abdomen, and inside both hind legs…and those were only the ones I could find – who knew what lay inside.
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So that is my friend. Although he is no longer with me, the images of the past 14 years, one month, and a few days are still very fresh…as is, sadly, the image of him laying on the veterinarian’s floor as I left him for the last time. A few years ago I promised him I would be there when it came time to say goodbye, and would hold him as they put him down. I realize it was simply an oath to myself; however, I’m still thankful his timing allowed me to be there for him as he went on.
I love you, buddy. You were the best dog I could have ever had and so much more than I deserved. Sleep well, old friend.
