She just turned 14, and for a few years has had some sort of neurological problem that messes with her legs. She can’t walk very well, she can’t climb stairs, and no matter how much she eats, she just continues to lose weight. She’s pretty damn near skeletal. She gets lost in low light, and she can’t hear a damn thing.
She pees and poops without knowing she’s doing it. You can see her surprise that it’s coming out. And since she’s in such bad shape, her pee is one of the most poisonous things I have ever smelled. It just about kills me to smell the stink.
But she’s still happy, still seems to love life, still loves to eat. It’s hard to say how I know that, but she just is. Clyde doesn’t sleep in our bed, but our little dogs do. Her spot has always been right at my side, between my armpit and my waist. I used to just tell her to get in her spot and she’d do it. Now I have to put her where I want her since she just stumbles across the bed like she’s drunk.
I’m not too shy to admit that I’m tearing up as I watch her wander around the room trying to get comfortable–it’s like she can’t quite get her back legs to do what she wants, but once she lies down, she settles into an old timer’s sleep and life is good until she gets to gobble up some more food. Then it’s perfect for a few minutes.
I just can’t let her go yet. I’m willing to put up with a little more pee just to give her a little more time gobbling up the food she loves, battling with Gretel and Clyde, and brightening up the world.
Soon enough, she’ll cross the threshold, and we’ll put her to sleep. I think that time is approaching fast. Maybe she’s down to a month, maybe weeks. I don’t know. I guess I’m ready for it.
You can read some more of my sentimental dog stuff by checking out the post I did when Ivan died years ago: My Ivan is Dead and Gone