I’ll start this in a horribly direct way: my dog is dying. She just turned 17 on Saturday, which should make me feel better about it. A long life, lived well, right? But I’m not a stoic. I’m a romantic and I love her.
She started going deaf many years ago now, I forget when. It was a little scary at the time, but we decided to teach her sign language. She knew signs for going for a walk, getting food, coming closer, and going to her nest (such as when she begs for food in the kitchen). I also tried to teach her ‘I love you’, but I’m not sure that she ever understood that in spoken words either.
Then, two and a half years ago, she started getting night blindness, which has since slowly progressed into a varying 80–100% blindness. The signs didn’t work as reliably anymore, but at least her sense of smell is good, she was still an optimist, and she loved cuddles. Deaf and blind is fine, as long as she’s happy. It wasn’t always easy, but she was worth taking care of. She’d be confused, sometimes clearly anxious about the things she couldn’t hear or see anymore.
The vet inspected her half a year ago, and I had two concerns we discussed. The first was a ticking clock: her teeth have always been bad, and she’d likely need a new inspection. But for the dental work, they’d need to put her under anaesthetic, and at this age, that could kill her. When we did that a year prior, she got extremely cold and the recovery took most of a week. Without the dental work, there’s the risk she can get an infection, or generally be in pain. That was a line I wanted to draw, for her wellbeing. But I’d also noticed her confusion. Her distractedness. How sometimes she’d be startled from nothing – something we last saw when she had joint pain, which we resolved many years ago. We figured it could be dog dementia, and from some basic trials we believed that it was.
That day, in spring, I knew that we were in her last year. Dementia slows down for nobody, and becomes crueller and crueller as time goes on. I made a deal with the vet, and with Hedda: when it gets hard for her to walk, or she’s in regular pain, we have to let her go.
And over the summer, even during the nicest weather, she began walking like the frost was in her bones. She began avoiding pressure on her hips, and now, the past month or two, she hasn’t wanted anyone to touch her on her back or hips any longer. She hasn’t taken the stairs in a long time, and when I put her down after walking down twenty steps, she doesn’t always know where she is. She knows her route, but we only take one route anymore. She knows my lap, but not always my touch. Last night, she woke me up every half hour, unsure of what time it was, unhappy with her position in bed, or just generally confused.
So it’s time. Wikkie has to go soon. She’s been my best friend for thirteen years and I don’t know who I will be without her. She has to go soon, and I’m going to miss her horribly. I would give anything to have her here longer, to hold her and play with her and kiss her grey old forehead and watch her make a terrible nest out of an unyielding pillow and let her eat long grass and ignore all the dogs that have ever wanted her attention. But that would be egoistic of me. It’s time for her to go.