SAGIE by Jeanie D. Morein / Your GrandMa

When my sister first brought you home 11 years ago, I can still remember the excitement I felt just having you around. As you matured out of puppyhood into an even more beautiful presence with your blonde-colored, wavy fur, you became not just pleasant to look at, but fun to be around. Later on, you developed quite an aggressive behavior and my sister had trouble handling you. I hated hearing and watching how you were being disciplined; I would tell myself–if only he were mine, but you weren’t.

After you were eight (8) years old, you were finally given to me. I received you in March of 2000. I came up with many nicknames for you, such as: “Buttercup”, “Peanut”, “Pumpkin”, “Mr. Sagie”, “Beee”,…My frequent sayings to you were: “What you smell?”, “What you see?”, “What you hear?”, “Look” (he knew to look for a treat); when he would growl, I would say, “Don’t be so grouchy!”… Most would see your growls as flaws; I saw it as character and your way of “speaking” to us. You were so intelligent. When my family & I had an argument, you would come in on us and bark a strange bark as if you were fussing us to stop the conflict-and we would. If someone threw a ball up–you would run in to bump it or hit it with your nose. You would even guard it between your shoulders so no one could take it from you. You loved hitting balloons up in the air; your jumps were high and graceful before hitting the balloon. It was fun to watch and play with you.

I hated taking you annually for your shots and grooming because I hated taking you against your will; I always wanted you happy & healthy. I was so happy when I saw you were happy; I was sad when you were sad.

In November 2002, I brought you to the vet to have a growth on your lip removed, only to find out a few days later it was malignant melanoma. I didn’t choose to have you go through chemo and radiation because the far trips and constant anesthetics to give you these treatments would have made you so unhappy & sick. So, we spent the last few months the best we can–peacefully together.

At the end of January 2003, I spotted a lump in the side of your right neck. I gave you an alternative therapy since December of 2002 called “Can-X” hoping it would prevent future growths–but I guess the first growth spread, and Can-X didn’t have time to detroy other growths. Only after a 3-4 week period, after spotting the lump in your neck, it grew more than double its size. I brought you back to the vet on
March 11, 2003 so that the vet would remove it. Because only the day before, you were still running and playing ball (but not as long), I thought it wasn’t too late.

Well, the vet informed me that he couldn’t remove the tumor because it was attached to the main blood supply to your brain, and said you would be in bad shape in about two (2) months if I didn’t agree to put you to sleep. A big part of me wanted you to stay; another part of me didn’t want you to painfully suffer. A friend told me later that a slow, painful death is not a gift. On this day, I felt as if I lost a big part of my existence. I also felt extremely guilty agreeing to end the life of one that still showed life. I cried just as hard as I did when I lost my brother to a drunk driver twenty years ago. Our bond was so strong; you were one being that my being clicked with. You probably knew me more than any other soul.

When I returned to work after signing the papers to put you to sleep; I felt a strange feeling come over me–like a breeze that carried your scent–it smelt exactly like you; it almost felt as if you were freed from what you knew was going to happen to you. That following weekend, I had a very vivid dream that you came to me. You were so happy, vibrant, healthy, glowing, and filled with energy. I could nearly feel you. This image was so short, but very vivid. I hope this
was your way of telling me that you are OK. Please forgive me if I made the wrong decisions–I was only thinking of your well being at that time.

I hope to be with you again in a healthier, happier, better world.


Missing you - With honor, memory & love,
Jeanie D. Morein