Azalea is lying by the bathroom door, napping where she fell.
I was lying next to her and she peacefully, slowly closed her eyes and I thought, “Maybe she’s gone.
Maybe I don’t have to make this decision.
Maybe she can go on her own.”
I looked to her furry back which still rose and fell, her breaths even and long.
She’s just napping.
She had her third seizure two days ago and she has been doing worse. Her paws are slip-sliding all over the floor, her legs all go in different directions and she looks pained and stuck. Rob or I come running and lift her up with a long wide piece of rubber Rob uses for stretching. We slide it under her belly and pull her up. If we don’t see her fall then slides into an awkward position and then falls to her side, with a whimper.
Rob called me at work last night. I had to step out from a very intense swearing laboring woman and speak gently to him as he quietly told me.
“She can’t get up. She hasn’t eaten. She won’t eat the bones I put in front of her. She seems really sad, Kat.”
“Do you want me to come home?” I asked, fearful he’d say yes. There were more patients coming in and it would be difficult to get out.
He said, “Not yet, I just wanted you to know.”
She rallied when I got home. I pulled her up and took her outside where she pe
ed on the driveway, then she ate dinner and went out again to poop. It is very intense and scary each time we do the stairs. I try and encourage her and get her to trust me, but I’m not sure if she should. I secure her as best as I can, but it hurts her, I think. She approaches the top of the stairs several times before she takes the stumbling plunge. My back is really sore from all the weird desperate lifting and pulling.
I slept downstairs on the futon, with her beside me on the floor.
I took the evening off work tonight, called in sick. I didn’t say it was my dog. I worried management would say dog doesn’t count as family illness. But I am heartsick and that should count.
I want to be a good and loving mother to her. I want to let her go when it is time for her; not when it is convenient for me. I have been asking people about it, mostly women from work who have had many dogs. They say, “You’ll know. She’ll look at you and you’ll know.”
I don’t know yet. She looks a bit sad and stuck, but it’s still her. It’s still those familiar eyes and that familiar look she’s given me for 14 and a half years. I say that over and over. She would be 101 in human years. That is a long life. She’s had a good life.
Today I got my haircut and talked about it with Kristie the woman who cuts my hair. I talked about Azalea’s life; I realized that she does little of what she used to do.
No long walks, her front paw just gives out and she trie
s to recover. We all pretend it didn’t happen, she looks so embarrassed.
No more going in the car, one of her very favorite things. She used to spend the day in the back of the CRV with the door open, holding court from her perch. It feels like it has been so long since she could jump in and out of there on her own. For a while I lifted her but now it’s too much for one person.
No more swimming. What a water dog she was. Her very favorite thing was to go to a river and fish for rocks. She would step into the water, roll the rocks around and find the perfect one, then she would pick it up gently, her muzzle draining water and move it to wherever she was making a pile. It was methodical and pleasing to her. If she couldn’t get one that she wanted she would moan and mutter, obsessed with the particular underwater rock. We used to say if she ever went missing, we would find her at the nearest stream with a rock in her mouth.
She could swim, too. Across lakes, in the ocean. She was a strong swimmer. Rob trained her, the same way he trained the girls on the monkey bars. From puppyhood there were lots of swamps and rivers, she could even launch off banks.
Slowly she’s become an old dog. We let her out a few times a day. She dozes quietly in her bed. She really likes to eat. Patrolling the floors for any dropped scraps in a way she never did when she was younger.
She always came when she was called which gave her a lot of freedom. She stayed close so we could leave her in the backyard where she could spend hours in her hovel under the cedar trees. Digging around in the moist dirt with flair, she’d send it flying and then, when satisfied, she would settle under the branches and peer out.
Now she can’t hear us when we call, but she doesn’t wander far. We make do, her and I, with eye contact and hand motions. We have a very strict schedule of feeding and going outside that she likes. If I forget; she paces. Her feet don’t pick up off the floor like they used to so the sound is loud and dragging and by now it communicates urgency to me. “I need to go out or I’ll poop in the living room” or “feed me damnit”
She doesn’t get up to greet us like she used to, I wave at her when I enter, before I set my things down and do what I have to do. I let her know when her food is ready, quick walks and meals by waving my hands and arms at her in certain ways. And I wave a goodnight as I finally head upstairs. Part of why her age has snuck up on me is because her eyes are so bright when she looks at me. She gets me. We get each other.
We weren’t sure about her and kids when she was younger. She merely tolerated them until they started hurling food off their high chair tray, then she became exceedingly tolerant. She still doesn’t like unknown toddlers walking toward her, she barks as they walk through the door. But she does love her own pack. Both the girls love her and look to her. The other day Lily and I were scrapping and she started to sob. She didn’t want me to comfort her, which was confusing for her. She turned to Azalea in her bed, stepped over her and curled up beside her holding her close, still crying. I remember that feeling with my dog, Moose, growing up, that no one understood me but the dog.
Surprisingly Azalea loves Georgia, too. The other day after her seizure she was still nervous and she walked over to Georgia and swiped across her, like dogs do, almost knocking Georgia down. Georgia grabbed her fur and spoke to her in a high pitched voice, “It’s OK Azalea. It’s OK.” Georgia sits beside her, hugs her, looks in her mouth, plays with her ears, all of which Azalea seems to appreciate, even now she opens to them when they come over.
I just made the appointment for 5pm tomorrow. Dr Sodorski and his wife will come and euthanize her in her corner on her dog bed and then take her to be cremated. I am so glad to have tonight with her. How strange to plan death. I am still unsure, but glad I have put it off until tomorrow. My friend put out the option of an animal psychic and an acupuncturist who might be able to help with her legs, but I guess I feel pretty grounded that I know what to do. That she is my dog and she will let me know.
I worked in a nursing home this year and was struck by how people would protectively remark about a sick elderly patient, “Leave him alone, he’s 97. Let him go!” I am used to the hospital and heroic measures; fighting death. It is unsettling to be in this position, weighing time, method, cost and comfort. I am thrilled, though, to do it here in her bed. Glad that the girls can be here if they choose and that she won’t be on a hard cool floor. Strange to be writing about it when she’s still here. This is how I prepare myself, by writing, but I’ll go sit with her now. Maybe now, that’s the hard part. Dear dog.
