Postcard From The Hardest Part of Being Human

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Just give me a 6-pack of beer and a pistol… I’ll take care of the rest.

Those were my dad’s words to my sister and I on so many occasions while growing up.

And though they were said tongue-in-cheek, that’s how serious the man was about not wanting to be an elderly burden to either one of his kids.

Even still, as the doctor stared at my sister, waiting for her confirmation to remove my dad from life support… she couldn’t do it.

Delaney then came barreling across the hospital floor and buried her chin into my chest.

“I’m sorry, Bubs. I can’t. You have to tell him to do it.”

We both knew good and damn well what he would’ve wanted.

Yet, standing under those assaulting bright lights, with my knees shaking and my sister sobbing… Rudy Landin’s “one and only son,” as he so proudly referred to me as, was now being forced to make the hardest decision of my life.

Ultimately, after a few moments of taking in the gravity of what I was about to do, I asked the doctor to stop the breathing machine.

Almost exactly a year and a half after my dad’s passing, I was faced with yet another, almost equally painful decision.

Now look, I know some people might think comparing the death of my dad to the death of a dog is blasphemous (and if that’s you, I’ll just assume you’ve never owned a dog), but after speaking to many others who have experienced that same kind of loss…

I’ve come to the following conclusion:

Maybe the overall impact of losing a parent and a pet aren’t quite the same.

But the internal pain and anguish?

Fucking hell.

It’s eerily similar.

Before Rambo, I’d never had to put down a dog.

And the fact that it was cancer eating him alive — the same fate my dad had met only 18 months before — only made it all that much worse.

I’ll never forget standing shoulder-to-shoulder with my mom and sister.

The three of us semi-circled around the animal hospital table, while Rambo sat there trembling and confused.

He never liked that place… or that vet.

Knowing the moment had arrived, I did my damndest to avoid making eye contact with the vet, as he gave me that familiar glance — the one seeking my permission to administer the lethal shot.

Ya know, I felt some sort of guilt admitting this at the time — and who knows, maybe it was stored grief from my dad’s passing — but I swear to you… I cried just as much coming home from the vet that day as I had coming home from the hospital a year and a half before.

So why do I share this, now… all these years later?

Because my family and I are smack dab in the middle of losing yet another loved one to cancer.

After Rambo passed, my heart was absolutely gutted.

So I made the rash, knee-jerk decision to do exactly what most animal people advise you not to — I immediately began the search for a new puppy.

Honestly, looking back, I was just trying to fill the massive void left behind by my dad and Rambo.

But… there was also a caveat in me doing so.

This wasn’t going to be just any puppy.

Because he’d been the best dog anyone in my family had ever had, I was determined to find another American Eskimo — the same breed as Motherfuckin’Rambo (that’s his nickname, but it needs to be said quickly and all run together).

The details of how it all went down are for another time, but here’s the most important part — in the end, I drove across three state lines in order to come home with her.

A brand new, beautiful, fluffy baby girl.

One we named Ozzie-Wozzie-Pookie-Puddin’-Pie.

Truth be told, Ozzie turned out NOTHING like Rambo, and bless my little heart for thinking that that was even a possibility.

This wild child of ours is now 11 years old, and she’s been doted on and spoiled-rotten every day of those 11 years.

Although she started off as my dog, roughly six years ago, my sister babysat (or kidnapped, depending on who you ask) Ozzie and I never got her back.

That very sweet and special part of this story will get its own proper telling one day in Ozzie’s tribute.

But for right now… we’re in a rather familiar and unfortunate phase with our baby girl.

Almost exactly one year ago, Ozzie was diagnosed with terminal skin cancer.

At that time, the oncologist told my sister and I that Ozzie’s best-case scenario was 4 to 6 months.

Lo and behold, our little pink-bellied princess warrior said “fuck cancer,” and we are now 13 months past her diagnosis.

However… these past few weeks, things have begun to change rather quickly.

She’s having both good and bad days… but the bad ones are starting to outpace the good.

Luckily, she’s been eating her turkey and veggies like a teenage boy.

But she’s suddenly having a real difficult time chewing any food.

She’s still thirsty as a camel.

But as of this week, she’s having a hard time keeping any water in her mouth.

She’s continued to lose so much of her strikingly beautiful white coat, and her sparkly eyes have gone from lit up… to tired.

Typing this, my own eyes well and my belly aches.

Ashlie, my mom, and I have already shed so many tears — and not just because of how much we love Ozzie — but because we know what this is going to do to my sister.

Those two share a bond like I’ve never seen between a human and an animal.

It’s why it was an absolute no-brainer for Ozzie to end up being my sister’s ride-or-die.

And that term couldn’t be more fitting. Ozzie might be small in stature, but when it comes to Delaney, she’s as fierce and protective as a lion.

A year ago, we all knew this day would come, but that still doesn’t make it any easier.

Now I don’t know if it’ll be one more day, or one more week, but given Ozzie’s appetite and her still-wagging tail… at least we know — it’s not today.

But when that day comes, when she finally gives us the sign, I have a feeling I know how it might go.

Once again, and understandably so, my sister won’t be able to give the necessary nod.

She’ll look to me.

But it won’t matter that I’ve done this before.

And it won’t matter that I know it’s the right thing to do.

It’s still the hardest part of being human.

With Gusto,

Adrian

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