"Shaman Aura Ives of Rockaplenty's Ain't She Sweet and High Roller". Shaman was my son with four legs. He was also a big, handsome Gordon Setter dog.

Today marks the tenth anniversary of the day Pat, my Wife, and I took Shaman in to begin receiving radiation and further surgery for his cancer.

I don't have a lot to say about it, but it does feel both shorter and longer than a decade.

I fought for Shaman his entire life, and we came out the winners. He was born with no immune system to speak of, so life was a struggle, but remained a joyous one for him - and his attitude was contagious. This trip to North Carolina was our last big bout. It was such a huge, traumatic event - especially for him, but also for me - that it would linger for some time, even once it was over. Unlike the rest of my years of making every effort to keep him alive and happy - which I'd never doubted - I had my doubts this time. It was going to be a terrible experience for him. I was the only one who could decide if the benefits would outweigh the costs. Pat was a huge help through this.

Shaman went through six weeks of absolute physical torture. We were allowed to go down to North Carolina only once during this period (visiting for a few hours on a Sunday), before the effects were becoming visible. Pat took a photo that day: (Go to "Shop", Go to page 2, Open "What I See" Gallery, Open "Family" Gallery, go to page 2, see photo top row middle.)

His lead doctor (he had an entire team) told us she wouldn't allow a follow-up visit because if we saw him as he would soon appear, she knew we would try to scoop him up and "save" him from what he was experiencing. "He will look like a Holocaust victim" she said. Instead, she called at least twice a week to tell me what was happening and how he was doing. On top of that, he had a few emergency surgeries, and of course I was informed after those events. As we walked out of the building after our initial delivery, with Shaman remaining there, I was crying before we got to the car. "I don't know if I'm doing the right thing!!! Am I????!" I asked Pat. I could tell she wasn't sure either, but now was the time for comfort and faith, not a change of mind. It was our hearts talking, and they had to be quieted - for him.

I counted the hours, days, and weeks. You have to understand he was not just my dog. He was a part of my family, and couldn't have been closer to me if he'd been my human child or left arm. I've had many dogs in my life. I've loved them all. But, Shaman was part of my Being.

When it finally came time to bring him home - where he would then need recuperative care from us - my lower back went bad on me again, and I could barely manage moving. Pat, without blinking, said she'd drive the Ford van alone the six hours down to pick him up and bring him home. She also tape recorded the entire conversation with his lead doctor, so I could hear it. This was one of the times Pat became my hero.

Shaman was a wreck. In those six weeks, he'd come to believe that when any human was near him, it meant pain. He had the clearest case of Post-Traumatic-Syndrome I've ever seen. Of course that changed within a few days - he knew better. He just had to realize he was Home again, surrounded by the love and care he's always known.

Don't get me wrong. The University of North Carolina Vet School is perhaps the most impressive and humane animal hospital on Earth. But Shaman still faced what he faced, and it was awful. And THIS was a guy who LOVED people and LOVED going to his home Vet and LOVED seeing everyone there every time.

Was it worth it? I believe he would've said yes. Once he was rested up and found his Home still "here" - unchanged and waiting for him - he gained weight, and returned to his strong, joyous self. We had our routines, games, health maintenance schedules of pills, diets, injections, etc.. He became big, happy, and bright once again.

Those six weeks gave us two more years.

His decline the last few weeks was difficult, that's for sure, but he never again experienced anything equal to the treatments that began 10 years ago today.

He died quietly at Home, in our arms, with no one else there, and me whispering it was okay... I loved him... he could go now. And he did.

We should all be so lucky.