The One With an Ode to Chubbs

Friday I was standing in line at the vet, waiting for them to bring Chubbs his medication, and the woman in front of me turned and did a double-take at him. I must have looked at her with some suspicion because she went on to explain, "I'm sorry. I used to live in Dallas, Texas, and I knew someone who bred Rottweilers and Golden Retrievers, and they looked just like your dog."

"Well," I replied, "you're not going to believe this, but this dog was abandoned on my yard in Hurst, Texas."

"I lived in Garland! They used to breed those dogs to be seeing eye dogs."

I went on to tell her how I did therapy work with Chubbs, making a proud list of all his accomplishments and bragging about his superb temperment. I couldn't wait to get to my car so that I could start crying. I had just found out that Chubbs might have colon cancer, and I couldn't stop thinking about what a great loss it would be if he did.

Thursday night, Chubbs started licking his butt excessively. Every time my dogs start exhibiting any strange behavior, I immediately take them to the vet. You never know what could be wrong. I thought he probably needed his anal glands drained, which is weird because he'd never had a problem with them before. I was right. He needed his anal glands cleaned because something was blocking one them -- a lump.

The vet explained to me that it could be one of two things -- an absess that would clear up in a week or two with medication and have no lasting side effects or colon cancer which would kill him fairly quickly, even with treatment. Some choice. I'll take Option A, please.

For those of you who know my dogs, can you imagine the dynamic of this family without Chubbs? Fenway and Muggsy are both a little bit crazy. Chubbs is stable and loving and kind. He can learn almost any trick within two or three tries. He knows how to go to his spot in the bathroom from anywhere in the house. He licks my face when I cry. He loves children. He's my demo dog in my classes. He brings joy to kids at the Hermosa Beach group home that I visit. In fact, he has been honored for his charity work at a banquet. That's my Chubbs.

When I was single, I used to wake up every morning with his big black and tan face lying on the pillow next to me watching me sleep. It's every girl's dream, sorta. Now, he sleeps on the floor, but he jumps on the bed each morning and flops his 90 pounds right ontop of my stomach, lying there until I ask him if he wants his pill. See, Chubbs has thyroid problems and will be on medication for the rest of his life. But taking his pill means that he can eat in an hour, and since I started feeding raw meat, that's the greatest part of his day. He'll run from the kitchen to the spot where his food bowl goes in the living room repeatedly as I prepare the food, hopping as only he can. It reminds me of his childhood when he used to take off full speed on my hardwood floors to get to his food. The problem with this was that he had to turn a corner to get to his food bowl and he would slam into the wall every time!

When he was a teen, I thought he was dumb because he couldn't learn how to sit or down or do anything I said on command. Turns out, he was smarter than the average dog -- he learned that if he didn't do what I said, I'd give up and let him do what he wanted. It wasn't until I brought a trainer over for my other dog and she pointed out that Chubbs had the run of the house that I started making him work. Since then, he has been successful at agility, earned his Canine Good Citizen and passed the Delta Society therapy dog test with a perfect score. But when I'm trying to get him to balance a liver treat on his nose to impress the kids at the group home, he still gives me that, "You want me to do what?" look.

I don't think there's anything I can say in this blog to make those of you who haven't met Chubbs understand what a special dog he is. But I can tell you that on Friday, until 11 a.m., the only thing in my prayers will be, "I'll take Option A, please." This household just wouldn't be the same otherwise.