My dog Betsy has 12 hours to live. She's blissfully unaware, lying on the cool, kitchen tile. I am in my brown, corduroy-covered La-Z-Boy, under a blanket, crying.
For three days, we've watched her disappear: releasing urine in the hallway after she'd just been outside, burrowing behind and knocking over of a side table in the bedroom, having scary uncontrollable seizures at 6:00 in the morning. Today, she's bouncing in and out of it. Between seizures, confusion, gentle kisses, and falling into the wall, somewhere is my best friend...the one I fell in love with 12 years ago...
"Bup-ba" (as I like to call her) is mostly gone now.
Cancer, 14-years of living, and potentially Lyme have taken their toll.
In her place, a strange impostor who stares glassy-eyed into the distance.
There is no scale large enough to weigh the lump in my throat.
For the last two years, her nuzzles kept me breathing. And the thought of life without her prances, scratches at the door, snoring, or excitement feels unbearable.
In this moment, everything's surreal: she's fussing with her bed, getting a drink of water, giving me little snippets of love. A few minutes ago, she was pacing uncontrollably, licking the floor...panicked.
Her tail has not wagged once today.
There is nothing "right" about such a difficult decision.
The are bright spots: she'll be at peace, she won't suffer, the emotional toll of making sure she's ok will be lifted. Still, the dark spots are heavy: guilt, doubt, upset, pain.
I love you, Betsy, and can't thank you enough for all you've given me. For 12 years, you've kept your end of the bargain. Now, reluctantly, I'm going to keep mine.
Here's to one last car ride and walk around the block....
Rest. In. Peace.