In 2012 I turned 40 (which, in people years, equals “40”) and Lenny turned 12 (which, in people years, is either “77” or “61” or “84”  depending on which Yahoo Answer you trust  but any way you slice it, it’s “fucking old”.) It was time for him to enter the “Golden Years”- so named by his Vet because she purchased a solid gold yacht and named it “Lenny’s Blood and Bile Acid Tests” (replacing her previous yacht “That Mysterious Lump on Sparky’s Paw”). It was the beginning of a long journey, our final adventure together. It was a journey that came with a new vocabulary “biopsy”, “sarcoma”, “debulking”, “radiation”, “palliative care”. Words meant to be spoken in reassuring tones under a fluorescent light while you’re screaming inside. Words you stitch together and form into a raft to carry you across the river from the unthinkable to the inevitable.

As is the nature of these journeys, it wasn’t always pretty and it wasn’t always fun. This may come as a shock to you, but Lenny was a terrible patient. I spent most of his last few months trying to find new and elaborate ways to coax him into taking his pills by hiding them in different types of food (seriously- I baked a five tier wedding cake to give that dog some fucking Predinsone).  I can say with absolute certainty that there will never again be a dog as adept at eating the hot-dog around a pill and spitting the pill out whole as if to say “uhm, excuse me, garcon, there’s a pill in my hot dog. Could you please notify the maître d? This would NEVER happen at Le Cirque.” Cause, of course, Lenny had no idea what was going on. His eye would be gushing blood like he was starring in an all dog production of Oedipus and he would greet us at the door with a big smile on his face like “hey guys, what’s up? Anyone for tennis? A cocktail perhaps? I’ve got fresh squeezed blood!” That was one of the funny things about that dog- no matter how much his appetite diminished he always had room for yummy yummy eye blood licked off his cone of shame. Huh. That’s not funny at all- it’s profoundly disturbing. Oh Lenny.

No matter how rough things got, though, every day we had with him was a gift- right up until the end when we gave him the gift of peace. But this is still 2012- and the end was a couple of years off. There were still trips to be taken, children to bark at and…well…other people to bark at, too. And that’s how I like to remember him now. Lying with his head flat on the ground. Face squished up to achieve maximum patheti-weticusness. First raising one eyebrow, then another. Barking at someone he’s too lazy to get up and look at- just assuming the recipient of his barking is an “evil doer” cause it’s easier than getting up and finding out the truth (John McCain would be so proud). Or emitting a heavy sigh of existential despair at the sheer weight of the world on his little doggy shoulders pushing his wrinkled face into the floor (John Paul Sartre would be so proud).

13 years. Gone just like that. I miss him so much.

OK- well, thanks for the intro Cap’n Buzzkill- now here’s the 2012 Holiday Letter.

And here are all the other letters so far:
2005 letter
2006 letter
2007 letter
2008/09 letters
2011 letter