Cooper by Doris M.

Cooper was a beautiful, sweet, extraordinarily talkative Golden Retriever. Everyone who knew Cooper loved his hammy demands for petting and his human-like verbalizing. Shortly before his 7th birthday in 2003 my daughter—Cooper’s beloved human sister--noticed that he was very uncomfortable when she brushed the teeth on the left side of his mouth. Our veterinarian, Dr. Gary Yarnell, could see nothing there but ordered blood work. It came back totally normal. During a follow up visit Gary was able to feel a tiny ridge of flesh tucked in where the upper gum meets the inside of the cheek and aspirated some fluid from it; this also showed nothing. Not satisfied, Gary did a biopsy, saying it was almost certainly nothing but that it was best to be 100% certain.

It was not “nothing”. The tiny ridge of flesh in Cooper’s mouth was the only (barely) visible evidence of what turned out to be fibrosarcoma that had already invaded his nasal membranes and beyond. Dr. Yarnell referred us to Dr. Gerald Post who laid out the best course of treatment for this aggressive disease: surgery followed by radiation. He never let on that the prognosis was poor; that the average survival time of dogs with this cancer was measured in months, not years. Dr. Post was upbeat and positive as he introduced us to Dr. Debra Weisman who would do Cooper’s surgery.

Dr. Weisman laid out all the surgical options, the most drastic of which entailed cutting out a large area of Cooper’s upper jaw. We decided on less extensive excision (to be followed by a month of radiation) and Dr. Weisman spent several hours painstakingly removing the visible tumor and following the spider-like extensions of the cancer as far as she could up through Cooper’s nasal cavity and sinuses. That hot summer day was memorable to us because our beloved older dog was lying on an operating table in Norwalk. The rest of the population will recall it as the day the power went out all up and down the east coast. Dr. Weisman finished Cooper’s surgery with light provided by a generator and called us when she was finished to reassure us that all had gone well though she could not get to all of the tumor which would have to be treated with radiation. How grateful we were—for her expertise and skill as a surgeon and for her sensitivity to our fears and feelings.

That same evening we were able to bring Cooper home. We drove to Norwalk in the darkness of the blackout, carried our still woozy dog to the car. As we drove out of the hospital parking lot the lights came back on. We took it as a sign—and it was.

Beginning in September, Cooper and I spent a month in Waltham Massachusetts where he had twice a day radiation treatments at The New England Veterinary Oncology Group. Unlike most facilities where dogs must be left at the hospital during the entire course of their treatment, NEVOG allows outpatient treatment and even arranges low cost accommodations for patients’ families at a nearby pet-friendly hotel. These wonderful people have a playroom for radiation dogs where they’re allowed to play together before their treatments. Cooper and I actually enjoyed our time at NEVOG spending quality time with each other and with new friends. Cooper romped with his “girlfriend”, Sandy and other pals in the radiation “lounge” while I got to know many other doggie companions in the waiting area. Cooper never seemed to suffer during the treatments at all, even when his muzzle showed signs of radiation burns, turning black then white.

By early October Cooper was finished with his treatment and we were overjoyed when Dr. Post called us with the result of his follow-up CT scan: Cooper was cancer free! Every 3 months for a year we went back to see Dr. Post at The Veterinary Oncology and Hematology Center (VOHC) and every time we got the same good news. During the second year we came for a check-up every six months and another CT scan confirmed that the cancer had not returned. At every visit Dr. Post rejoiced with me that Cooper was perfectly healthy. It was only then that he let on that he had never known a dog to beat this lethally aggressive form of cancer this long and this completely. Cooper was a “miracle dog”. CT scans and chest ex-rays done in early June 2006-- 3 years after his cancer diagnosis--showed Cooper to be perfectly healthy. At his last visit to Dr. Post Cooper romped enthusiastically while all the humans at VOHC smiled and laughed with him.

On June 27, 2006, Cooper played as usual with his younger Golden brother, Max, with his little human nieces and a teenaged friend; he seemed fine. But sometime during the night he died, peacefully, curled up on his left side, just the way he had lain sleeping on so many other nights. We wrapped Cooper in the blue and white blanket he had so artfully “decorated” with nibbled corners and buried him under the viburnam bush in our yard where liked to hide from the sun—and from us when we called for him to come inside and panicked when he didn’t, thinking that he had taken another hike down the road to see his lady friend, Diva. We laid him lovingly in the ground along with his collar, leash and a pair of Thorlo socks which were his favorite brand to tear to pieces with his beautiful white teeth.

The shock and grief we felt at his passing was terrible. I feel the tears on my face as I type this. But I smile through those tears thinking of all the wonderful times we had with Cooper. In fact, there wasn’t a single day this precious dog didn’t make us smile--from the first day we saw the chubby puppy known as “Yellow Boy” at the breeder, through a million hours of cuddling, petting, fetching, car rides all over town and to South Carolina, walking—and talking. Those 3 years of “borrowed” time were especially precious. We will always be especially grateful for those years and to all the amazing people who made them possible. Cooper—and his human family—could not have made it through without each and every one of those wonderful doctors. I wish we could be even more generous in our support of the great work being done by the Animal Cancer Foundation.