RIP JOEY PONCH

Note in advance...this is selfish. When I wrote what you're about to read I was sad and was struggling to deal with my emotions. I tend to do better with the written word than the verbal one - which means you can draw your own conclusions about what it must be like to talk to me. :) And even if I could verbalize what I was feeling, it wouldn't have been fair to my wife, who was grieving just as much as I was. So, I posted on a forum site for an audience of great friends - caring people who truly have become a second family. As therapeutic as it was to make the post, the responses were absolutely overwhelming. As we read them, Kim and I still cried, but there were more tears of gratitude and joy to blend in with the ones of sadness.

Kim suggested we make this a bit more public. Joey Ponch touched a lot of people, and so many of our family and friends loved him as well. So, boring background information aside, if you're inclined to read further, we both thank you. And more important, we thank you for the love you showed Joey Ponch, and your care and support of us as we all mourn his loss and celebrate his amazing life. Thank you.

Yesterday we put down our dog, Joey Ponch. We'd had him for almost six years, adopting (rescuing, really...he'd been there for nearly five months) him from the Humane Society. It was love at first site, and he just seemed like he needed to care for a family just as much as he needed the same in return. His name was just "Ponch" when we got him, but I didn't like picturing Erik Estrada every time I called my dog. However, since he was seven years old, it was too late in life for him to go by something else. Being a huge fan of the Sopranos, and of Joey "Pants" Pantoliano who was on the show at the time, we simply added "Joey" up front. It worked, even though Joey Ponch couldn't have been any more opposite Joey Pants' character. He was the most loving, playful, peaceful, and gentle dog I've ever known. Kids loved him, cats loved him, even my grumpy-assed father in law loved him. :)

Three years ago, suffering from low energy, very sore joints, and a weak appetite, he was diagnosed with cancer. Our vet - a gracious and caring fellow, began the good fight. We were told that our best collective efforts might extend his life by two years. In the past three years I've learned more about multiple myaloma than any of us would want to know. Medicine after medicine, adjustment after adjustment - over the past year, Joey Ponch was forced to take a total of 14 pills a day, and once a month he got a chemo injection that sapped his energy for nearly a week at a time. Never once, though, did he fail to meet us at the door with his big smile and wagging tail...toy in mouth, even if he wasn't feeling up to chasing it. Never once did he fail to entertain for a treat, even if we were just trying to give him medicine. Never once did he snarl or nip at one of the cats for waking him up, or wanting to play when he wasn't feeling well. Never once. Joey Ponch, among many, many life lessons, has taught me about courage and zest for life.

We knew we were on borrowed time. In the past four months it took him longer to recover from the needed blast of poison in his veins. He had more bladder accidents than before (anyone familiar with prednisone can relate...and with the doses Joey Ponch was taking, I'm still amazed he didn't pee in the kitchen more often). Worse, and hardest to watch, was his slowness to get up each morning, and the obvious weakness, particularly in his hindquarters. We knew we were on borrowed time. But we kept up hope. His bi-weekly blood tests gave us no reason not to, even though what we saw every day should have. We told ourselves, over and over, that we needed to prepare for the inevitable. Yet, how do you prepare? Yesterday morning his slow downward trend hit a cliff. When we woke him up - hoping to give him treats and his morning stack of pills, he couldn't move his hindquarters. At all. It freaked him out just as much as it freaked us out....nearly as much as it broke our hearts.

My stepson and I carried him to the truck, laughing (while crying a little) and telling him it was okay as he peed on me, his 62 pounds feeling much less than his fighting weight of 70. I talked to him during the drive, trying not to cry as he struggled...and failed...to look out the windows. Together we waited until the animal hospital opened, him worried, frustrated, panting. Me trying not to cry and petting him. The diagnosis? Neurological in nature, beyond that...anyone's guess. Tumor...old age...damage from the poisons in his body and the poisons used to fight them...no good way to know. Worse, all the stress caused an irregular heartbeat that couldn't be addressed. We just couldn't give up, though. Hoping only on thin hope that massive doses of prednisone and lidocaine would help, we asked the vet to give one last shot.

{WARNING...this may be more graphic detail than you want.}

At 5pm, we had to make a decision. And I'll tell you, it's one I absolutely hated making. How can I reconcile the fact that my dog's body is failing him when he can still look me in the eye and lick my face? How can I control my emotions when my wife and stepson are crying harder than I am? How do I sign the paper with that ugly word, "euthanasia," on it? How do I know this is the right thing to do yet in my heart of hearts not want to do it? Collectively, we understood this was the best. We each said goodbye to Joey Ponch a half-dozen times or so, realizing this would be funny if it wasn't so agonizing. In the end, there wasn't room for three of us in the cage with him. So my loving wife, who nearly six years ago gave the original 'ok' to bring home a dog when she really wanted a cat, hugged him as the vet injected into the I.V. the most vile, pink liquid I can imagine. And like that...and I mean instantly...he was gone.

If you've stuck with me thus far, thank you....thank you. I'm sitting here, crying as I type, trying not to be so goddamned sad about this. The reaction of people in our lives thus far has covered such a range that I totally understand why many choose to keep this private. Clearest example: the dumbassed boss at the absolute crap-hole where Kim worked until yesterday had the balls to ask, "What time will you be back at work after you put down the dog?" Needless to say, she resigned without notice. Much less than what I would've done. Nonetheless, people either get it or they don't. And I'm okay with that, I guess, as long as the ones who don't at least get that I do. But most just really don't, and I can't answer their questions. Trying to convey that an animal truly is a family member is useless. For the rest of us, again, thank you.

I just miss my dog. I'm regretting all the bad stuff, which is somehow so much more vivid than the good. Times I yelled at him for getting in the trash. Or peeing in the house before I realized why he did it. Times I was too tired to take him for a walk. Times I yelled at him at 3am to stop licking his damn paws. All he ever did was give us unconditional love, brightening our lives after a tough day, and even if we never appreciated it enough, showing us what's really important in life.

Man, I'm sitting here crying...again...and I just can't stop the tears. I think this has helped, and I can only thank you all for reading.

RIP Joey Ponch. I love you.