Chapter 9 - THE LAST TIME ZEUS NEEDED ME
Zeus was nine when Dr. Reyes called me on a Tuesday morning.
Not emergency.
But close.
“He’s stopped eating breakfast.”
Dominic had already brought him in.
Bloodwork.
Imaging.
Not just arthritis.
A mass near spleen.
My stomach dropped.
“Cancer?”
“Possible. We need more.”
I drove to clinic.
Not as behaviorist.
As someone who loved the dog.
Dominic sat on floor in exam room.
Zeus’s head on his shoe.
He looked up.
“Nora.”
“What did she say?”
“Tests.”
I sat.
No fixing.
No advice outside expertise.
Dr. Reyes explained.
Mass could be benign or malignant.
Surgery possible depending imaging and blood values.
Age nine.
Large dog.
Risks.
We needed data.
Dominic asked:
“What would you do?”
Dr. Reyes answered:
“I’ll tell you medical options. You decide based on his condition and goals.”
Good.
No guilt.
Ultrasound suggested splenic mass with uncertain features.
Surgery recommended because rupture risk.
Zeus otherwise healthy enough.
Dominic agreed.
Not because money bought certainty.
Because option made sense.
Surgery went well.
Mass removed.
Pathology took days.
Those days stretched.
Dominic slept badly.
Zeus stayed hospital two nights.
When he came home, he wore recovery suit and hated it.
Dominic slept downstairs beside him.
Again.
Pathology:
Benign hematoma.
We both cried.
Relief.
Then I felt guilty.
People with malignant results do not deserve less.
Dr. Reyes reminded:
“Relief is not moral statement.”
Right.
Zeus recovered.
Slowly.
Then something changed.
He became more anxious when alone.
Age.
Hospital stress.
Maybe pain memory.
We adjusted.
No one demanded return to previous baseline.
Dominic reduced travel.
I told him not to rearrange company around dog impulsively.
He stared.
“I can choose to stay home.”
“Yes.”
“Then stop making autonomy speeches at me.”
Fair.
He stayed.
Months later Zeus began waking at night confused.
Walking into wrong hallway.
Standing at doors.
Canine cognitive dysfunction possible.
Dr. Reyes evaluated.
Medication and routine changes.
Night lights.
More predictable sleeping area.
Dominic looked devastated.
“He forgot the kitchen.”
“Maybe.”
“He loves kitchen.”
“Yes.”
“Can we fix?”
“Manage.”
He hated that word.
No cure.
Eventually, Zeus started having more good nights again.
Then one evening I arrived at mansion and Zeus did not greet me.
I found him in sunroom.
He lifted head.
Looked.
Then turned away.
My heart broke.
Dominic said:
“He’s tired.”
I sat six feet away.
Did not call him.
After five minutes, Zeus stood.
Walked to me.
Slow.
Placed head against my knee.
Same as first night.
I cried.
Quietly.
Dominic looked away.
“Do you remember?”
“Yes.”
“He does?”
“We don’t know what he remembers.”
Good.
No sentimental certainty.
But he chose contact now.
Enough.
That was the last time Zeus needed my professional help.
Not because he died.
Not yet.
Because from then on, his needs were medical and caregiving, not behavior rehabilitation.
Dominic knew him.
Staff knew him.
Systems were stable.
I stepped out of consultant role entirely.
That mattered.
Love can become dependency if expertise never leaves.
Then, a few months later, Zeus snapped at Dominic during nighttime confusion.
No contact.
Just air.
Dominic called me reflexively.
I answered.
Then said:
“What do you think?”
He was silent.
“What?”
“You know him.”
“I want your opinion.”
“You already have Dr. Reyes.”
“Nora.”
“What happened before snap?”
Dominic described.
Zeus asleep.
Dominic tried guiding him away from door.
Dog startled.
“Then?”
“I backed off.”
“Good.”
“Then he settled.”
“What is your question?”
Silence.
He knew.
No question.
He wanted reassurance.
I softened.
“You handled it.”
“Did I?”
“Yes.”
He breathed.
“Okay.”
That call showed me something.
Dominic no longer needed me to interpret every growl.
He had learned to listen.
Not perfectly.
Enough.
Our relationship had changed too.
Four years together.
No engagement yet.
Fine.
People asked.
Dominic’s relatives asked.
Ava asked rudely.
“Are you getting married or conducting a longitudinal study?”
I laughed.
Dominic did not.
Marriage had weight for him.
Family control.
Trusts.
Inheritance.
I understood.
One night he said:
“I am afraid marriage makes everything legal power.”
“Only if we let it.”
“Prenup.”
“Yes.”
“Separate property.”
“Yes.”
“No automatic role in Castellano companies.”
“Please.”
He smiled.
“No expectation you leave Harbor House.”
“Obviously.”
“Security?”
“Negotiated.”
“Children?”
We went quiet.
I did not know.
He did not either.
Good.
“No answer yet,” I said.
“Okay.”
That was the conversation before proposal.
Months before.
No ambush.
Then Zeus declined again.
Not dramatic.
Age.
Pain.
Cognitive changes.
More bad days.
Dr. Reyes gave quality-of-life framework.
Eating.
Mobility.
Comfort.
Interest.
Sleep.
Joy.
No single day decided.
We tracked.
Dominic hated chart.
Used it.
Good.
One morning Zeus could not stand without help.
Emergency vet.
Pain crisis.
Medication adjusted.
He improved.
For three weeks.
Then another.
Dominic called me.
This time:
“I think we are close.”
I drove.
Not as professional.
As family? Careful.
As Nora.
Zeus lay on courtyard blanket in sun.
He still ate chicken.
Still lifted head when Dominic spoke.
Still leaned into chest scratch.
Not yet.
Dr. Reyes agreed.
Palliative.
More days.
Then one week later, Zeus stopped taking even chicken.
Would not rise.
Breathing shallow.
Pain signs despite medication.
Dr. Reyes came to house.
Dominic asked:
“Can we hospitalize?”
“Yes,” she said. “But I need you to understand what we are likely buying.”
Time.
Not recovery.
He cried.
“What would you do?”
She answered:
“I would consider euthanasia a compassionate option today.”
Silence.
Dominic looked at me.
I shook head.
Not my decision.
He knew.
He hated.
Then sat beside Zeus.
“Buddy.”
His voice broke.
Zeus opened eyes.
Dominic placed hand near his head.
Not touching.
“Can I?”
Ridiculous.
Beautiful.
Zeus leaned into palm.
Yes.
Dominic sobbed.
“I’m sorry.”
For what?
Training?
Years?
Everything.
Zeus did not absolve.
He just rested.
Dominic chose home euthanasia.
Dr. Reyes explained.
Sedation first.
No rush.
Zeus ate one tiny piece of cheese.
Of course.
Then slept.
Dominic kept hand under his head.
I sat nearby.
The dog who had injured three guards, terrified a mansion, exposed a family conspiracy, and changed two lives died quietly in sunlight without being asked to perform one last act of loyalty.
Afterward Dominic stayed on ground.
I stayed too.
No words.
Hours later he said:
“I thought saving him meant making up for what happened.”
I looked at him.
“No.”
“I know now.”
“What did it mean?”
He stared at empty blanket.
“Giving him days that belonged to him.”
Yes.
That was it.
We had not erased what men did.
We had not made trauma worth it because love came later.
We had given him a life after.
That was enough.
The year before Zeus died, Dominic and I also discussed whether he should be used in any legal proceeding as demonstrative evidence.
One attorney suggested filming his reaction to an old remote to show the conditioning.
I said no immediately.
Dr. Reyes agreed.
The attorney argued it could strengthen the case.
Dominic looked at me.
I said:
“He is not a courtroom exhibit.”
The attorney replied:
“No one is suggesting harm.”
“Re-exposure can be harm.”
That ended it.
Instead prosecutors used existing kennel footage, expert testimony, device records, and trainer statements.
No reenactment.
The case survived without making Zeus relive anything for human clarity.
That decision mattered to me.
For years, everyone had treated his body as something to make useful.
Training useful.
Fear useful.
Tracking useful.
Evidence useful.
We finally let one answer be:
No.
Not even for a good cause.
In Zeus’s final months, I also stopped keeping detailed behavior charts.
Not because data stopped mattering.
Because Dominic already knew the patterns that mattered.
Sleep.
Eating.
Mobility.
Interest.
Comfort.
Dr. Reyes’s quality-of-life sheet was enough.
My professional notes had once given Dominic confidence.
Now too much tracking risked turning the dog’s final days into a project.
One afternoon Dominic asked:
“Should we log how long he slept?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because you know he had a good morning.”
“That’s not objective.”
“Not everything needs to become objective.”
He stared.
This from me.
The woman who documented everything.
I smiled.
“We have enough information to make care decisions. We do not need to measure joy into a spreadsheet.”
He looked at Zeus rolling carefully onto his side in the sun.
Then closed the notebook.
Good.
That may have been the last lesson Zeus taught both of us about control.
During Zeus’s final week, Dominic canceled exactly one business dinner.
Not a month.
Not the company.
One dinner.
He sat in the courtyard instead.
I noticed because earlier versions of him swung between total control and total sacrifice.
Now he was learning proportion.
Work still existed.
Grief still existed.
Neither had to erase the other.
That balance was quieter than devotion stories usually allow.
It was also more sustainable.
May you like
The night before Dr. Reyes came for the final visit, Dominic slept beside Zeus on the floor without asking me what the “right” decision was. That mattered. He was grieving, but he was no longer outsourcing every painful choice to the person he thought knew more.
We stayed with him quietly.
