By David Stenhouse, Data Mutz

I lost my little buddy of almost 14 years and the void will be difficult to fill.

The emotions come in steep waves every few hours that bring pain and sadness. Just writing this post has brought tears. Yet, I have an overwhelming amount of relief.

I lost my dog to cancer.

I spent my lifetime self-educating to become Mr. Fixit. Sure, I can fix a failed water pump on my car…on a gravel driveway…in the dark….and in the pouring rain. Tear out a sink, tub, toilet, and re-tile a bathroom? Why not? I have remodeled my entire home, in many places down to the wall studs and subfloor. I consider myself capable of taking on tasks as opposed to calling for assistance. The reality that I could not fix my dog’s cancer was devastating to me. He needed me and I had failed him. When storms rage, I pride myself on the ability to keep calm and be a buffer in the middle of a confrontation. But now I was a helpless being with the fragility of life right in front of me.

But this is a good story.

In the Spring of 2007, my wife sent me a photo of a prospective dog being held at a Snoqualmie, Washington rescue. Looking at his humble, loving eyes, droopy ears, and an appearance as if he had just fallen out of the back of a truck, I knew he was the one. “He’s perfect” I responded, and less than a week later he was in our home. A little stray dog that had been plucked off the streets over east of the Cascades in Spokane. He was skinny, lacking a proper coat of fur, and a bit wary of his newfound family.

His name was “Oliver”, a fitting name given to him by the rescue. We called him “Ollie” and he responded to both. A mixture of Dachshund and Schnauzer (sometimes referred to as a “Schnoxie”) he was a two-toned brown dog of about 23 pounds when healthy. He was smart, quick on his feet, and fast in his top-end speed. His vertical leap ability was surprising to me for a dog of his size.

Ollie’s most prized possession was the tennis ball the rescue gave me, instructing me in a serious tone before I left with him, “You need to take his tennis ball”. I did not realize at first how important this ball was to him, but I quickly found out he needed to know exactly its location within the house at all times. When we would come in from the outside, our little dog would go throughout the house looking for the ball and when finding it he would lay down and rotate the ball in his mouth until it just felt perfect. All was well in the world when he knew when the tennis ball was with him. And it could not be any tennis ball, but the one that came with him.

Ollie understood geometry. I discovered his uncanny ability to leave his tennis ball literally in the middle of a hallway. It took me over a year to finally notice his penchant to find the correct median between two walls, prompting me to grab my measuring tape and check his accuracy. Within a ½ inch. It was his habit to leave the ball exactly in the middle of hallways and doorways—something I reminded myself when walking the hallways if my sleep was disrupted before dawn. He also displayed an interesting quirk where after retrieving the tennis ball in the backyard, he needed to step on the same rock when returning it to me for the next throw.

Although he believed every unfamiliar person was suspect, our dog particularly had disdain for a UPS truck. If he heard anything resembling a coming delivery, he would temporarily lose his cool. I remarked to my wife that Ollie believed UPS was the enemy because they had the same colors as his coat of fur. It was trademark infringement. FedEx did not seem to bother him as much.

He eventually let me pick him up and cradle him like a baby, kissing him on his head while scratching his belly. This reassured me that he trusted the Big Guy.

His time as a stray would show itself at times. On hot days, we would watch as our new family member would dig a hole in the cool dirt under the shade, and then lay in it. This erased all doubt that Ollie had only been on his own for only a short time. He had street smarts and knew how to survive.

I had a habit of calling Ollie “the Mutt” when referring to him around my family. I joked that he was “just a mutt”, a peasant in the world of dogs. Over and over calling him “Mutt”, I suddenly started calling him “Mutz” and it stuck to me as his nickname. My wife referred to him as “The Mutz”, where I let her know, “nope, it’s just Mutz”. It fit.

He did not like anything that was hard to walk or lay on. Somehow the streets of Spokane were a lost memory and Ollie had become a true citizen of the Sammamish Plateau, an area where harsh living seems to be unknown. When I installed a gravel path in the backyard, it was as if he looked at me and said, “Why? I need grass!” He would gallop on the grass, and then slow down and tiptoe over the gravel path. My wife and I would joke that Ollie hated that path, yet it was the only way back to the house.

As years passed, I noted that our little dog was a beautiful creature. He had great brown eyes that focused on me. As much as I joked about our little throw-away dog, I knew he was a well-toned athlete. Our vet told my wife how impressed he was by the strong back legs Ollie displayed and how good of health he was in, probably from the daily walks around the neighborhood.

This is why the aggressive cancer spreading throughout him wasn’t real to me. There was no way in my mind it could take down this picture of health and athleticism.

Ollie was fortunate to land me with my throwing arm and he knew it. Over 40 years of playing outfield in baseball and softball develops not only a strong throwing arm but an accurate one. I did not need one of those red long-arm ball throwers, because I used him to loosen me up in the early Spring with an approaching softball season. We own a large section of land adjacent to our house with plenty of room to air out some long throws, and Ollie took advantage of it. Our little dog responded excitedly if you could throw the ball in the same place so he could catch up to it in the same spot. If I could do it, I would notice a little extra energy in his gallop back to me. He loved repetition.

He would try to outrun my throws. Sometimes being so excited that he would take off without even dropping the ball at my feet. “Ollie!”, I would bark out, stopping him to turn around and returning the ball to me as if a bit embarrassed of his amped emotion.

Because I run a business from home, Ollie had been with me almost every day. I calculated the total days he was a part of the family to 5,053, and during that time I probably spent all but 100-150 days with him. I rolled into our driveway with him on March 26, 2007, and then spent the next 13 years learning about his personality, physical capabilities, and mostly learning how to love the dog and make sure he knew that. He knew my every move and I knew his. This made it easy to spot moments where I suspected problems with his health.

He started pawing at his mouth. For a dog that had numerous teeth removed under our care, my first thought was that he was going to lose more. I had seen this activity before, but the vet revealed to us his discovery of a growth requiring removal, which we had promptly done. A week later the biopsy results confirmed that he had developed a melanoma common to dogs—one that could be treated well if done quickly. And it was back. Further review by a well-qualified oncologist dampened our hopes a bit more when he said the cancer growing in our dog’s mouth was the fastest-growing melanoma he had witnessed in the 13 years of his practice

We put him through two additional surgeries—one major and a much minor procedure. As we watched him recover from both and slowly come back to being a much older, weaker, version of the dog we knew for 13 years, my wife and I agreed those were the last surgeries. We knew any further were more for our comfort and not his. We understood the risk. The holidays approached and he healed up with more energy—including chasing the tennis ball. This was perfect as our daughter and son-in-law were visiting. The time together as a family with Ollie during Christmas was a gift that we never will forget.

He was around during milestones for each of the family members. When I lost a great position in a good company, he was there. When we started our own business, present. Ollie was there for my wife on great days, and yet those that brought sadness. He was there to witness our daughter’s boyfriends, homecoming, leaving for college and coming home, and finally our son-in-law for who he instantly took a liking. He was not only a constant in my life but our family’s.

Schnoxie dog on grass in shade by flowers

I know my dog was perfect and far from being evolved by chance. He had a spirit in him that was created by design, providing my family joy throughout his time with us. I believe I am tasked to be a good steward of what I have been blessed with. We were caretakers of the gift he was.

While I have missed the mark with many tasks given to me throughout my life, Ollie’s efforts at being my dream dog made it much easier to hit his caring on the spot. My wife and I made sure all the components were in place for his health and happiness. Proper diet, daily walks between 1-2 miles, and routine vet visits. He was in top shape. I estimated his walks totaled a distance as if he walked from Seattle to Miami and back.

For the times that I got after him for barking, chewing on something he should not have, or making noise in the middle of the night, I felt bad remembering those moments when I realized his health was failing and he was fading away. My wife reminded me that I was the one who had picked him out and rescued him. Because of that fact tattooed in his mind, Ollie gave me a free pass. I was his hero and there was nothing that was going to change that. I could fix anything in Ollie’s eyes. I just could not fix it this time.

I have learned there exists a difference between sickness and pain in humans and that of the animals we are tasked with caring for. Humans tell us. Our pets, however, cannot tell us where the pain is and how bad it is getting for them. We look for cues and changes in their habits.

The cancer came back right after Christmas.

While it did not show on the exterior of our dog, I could tell by his mannerisms that it had. I looked for anything that would tell me I was wrong. When we took Ollie to the oncologist for a follow-up, I was so happy to hear the doctor say that he could not find any problems. I was so relieved, but in the back of my mind, I knew he was only viewing what he could see and feel from the outside. Two weeks after that visit, a noticeable growth in the same area of his mouth appeared and spread fast.

A week later after confirming the cancer returning, Ollie locked eyes with me laying in his bed on our living room floor. I knew that look. He would stare at me when his tennis ball was stuck in an area that he could not navigate. Ollie was once so terrified of a thunderstorm that he woke me up in the middle of the night standing on my chest on our bed and staring at me and panting in my face, as if saying, “Big Guy, do something!” The look I saw now was the look of him requesting help and there was only one route we could go. We chose the route that would erase the pain building up in his 23-pound body.

The veterinarian was professional and calming. As I was sitting there stroking the fur of my little dog, telling him that I loved him, and feeling the life leave him, there was a sense of relief. Many times, I would lay in bed and stare at the ceiling praying that the morning check-in would be good. No more did I have to wonder how Ollie was doing once I woke up and got out of bed. Ollie had kept chugging along and each day I knew that I was closer to the day he would be gone. That moment had arrived.

My wife and I sat in our truck and cried.

Grief is hard to understand, but it arrived at that moment and hit me like a sledgehammer. I had been so fortunate to be given the task of our little dog’s care, and to realize at that moment that he was not coming back was overwhelming to me. The pain and sadness hurt. It still does.

My wife spread Ollie’s ashes on our property. It was his yard, and now he would be a part of it forever. All of just under 14 years of our lives coming home with us in a small urn with his paw print cast in hardened clay. Although they are parts of the little dog that provided a lifetime of happy memories, they were just a symbolic ending to a dog’s life well-lived.

I watched her scatter some of the ashes on our backyard path. “You realize you just put Ollie on those rocks?”, I remarked. “He hated walking on those rocks and now you have put him there forever”. We both smiled and laughed a bit at the irony.

I believe many answers to life’s questions can be found in our immediate surroundings. One seeking a work ethic may watch a squirrel seek out pinecones for the coming Winter. To find what it takes to love and live properly, one can look to dogs.

Dogs give you unconditional love—a rare light source in a dark world. Ollie displayed that love daily for our family. He sought love, health, life, and his tennis ball. Successful at becoming a retriever for all of those items, he taught me much about the simple pleasantries that surround me throughout the day.

The house is so quiet. I really miss him.

Quoted in Computerworld, Laptop Magazine, Businessweek, and numerous other print and online news outlets, David Stenhouse brings 20+ years of computer forensics experience working with law firms and corporate clients. He is currently President of DS Forensics, Inc..

A former Special Agent in the U. S. Secret Service and Trooper with the Washington State Patrol, he is now so blessed to spend each day running a business with his best friend—high school sweetheart and wife, Shay.

You can follow David on Twitter @datamutz.