Today your last day
I wonder if you’ll remember your last day like I do.
Waking up all through the early morning hours, not able to get comfortable. You held your face close to me, you let me invade your space, you seemed starved not for food but for my attention.
You hadn’t eaten/drank/peed or pooed since 5 pm last night. I’ve took you out only to watch you double tap and produce nothing and wobble back in. I took you out at 1am to only watch you step off the porch and turn to go back up the ramp into the house.
I watched your hind legs separate twice as you tried to walk across the floor and go completely out to the sides in a very unnatural position. Wobbling as I help you back up, you presented as if it was not painful. Not out of character for you, Daisy, but in all these years we have shared I’ve caught on to how you have hid your pain.
I placed a towel under your hips to assist you outside a third time around 10 AM. It proved very helpful. You didn’t pee though, you walked me to the truck instead. “Let’s go.” And maybe I should have taken you for a last ride, but I turned you around and assisted you back to the ramp taking you inside.
Feed her anything she wants the Vet told me, Daisy. If only you could eat. Today you wouldn’t take a peanut butter cracker, lunch meat, ice cream, chicken broth, biscuit/gravy or treats. You would not be tempted to drink water.
The Prime van came and even drove through our yard again but you didn’t get up. You didn’t bark. You weren’t interested. You were just interested in holding your cold paw in my hand, laying your dripping nose on my leg or my foot.
Laps of Love told me they couldn’t help until 3 PM but you proved to be a strong warrior and fought fearlessly without their aids. When you raised up about 30 minutes before your fight ended, I recognized the look you had on your face. Xena had the same look, a stressed but rigid look of determination preparing to battle. Your breathing changed as the minutes passed. You moved around trying to breathe and get comfortable. You accepted our touch of comfort without any sign of irritation. “We are here with you, baby,” I told you as you were nearing the end of your fight. Emily and I reminded you of what a good girl you have been. We talked about joys we have experienced with you, we tried to give you courage.
And then you left.
Different than your travel of lightening speed to the creek when the hankering to hunt crawdads overtook you. I always sighed and got in the truck and went after you and brought you back to me. Different than your chase to the hay man at the gate or the landlord at the work barn. I always sighed, grabbed a leash, and wrangled you back to me. You traveled further than I can go this time.
And I am left with a Daisy size hole in my heart that I am desperately trying to fill with your scent from the pillow you lay against. I know that will fade away eventually but never will you fade from my mind. Please remember I love you like a big dog!
