Worry.

It always precedes and bleeds into the first couple of days on a trip out of town, when I have to put my beloved girlies in the care of others. Of course, I cried when we dropped Cecil off at the kennel. She hates it, and I hate it for her, even though they take great care of her. It also didn't help that my pet sitter left me a long rambling message a couple days before I left town, making sure I left all contact numbers for my vet, wanting to know if I wanted her to call me "if something would happen", with the disclaimer at the end of the message that, "Tara's getting older, that's the only reason...."

I don't blame her for worrying, I guess. Tara is 14 and has a chronic medical condition. However, her calls to confirm before I leave usually consist of, "Hi, I'm starting on (date) at (time) and finishing on (date + time). Let me know if there are any changes or if there's anything else I need to know." Maybe she sees more than I do. She asked very similar questions on my last couple of trips before Gunner went rapidly downhill at age 16. It doesn't help that every time I go out of town now, I have memories of having to take Gunner for his Last Ride the night before that trip. He was ready. I wasn't, though I know it was the right thing to do.

However, Tara's still happy. I find myself sometimes having to justify my decisions to people. After all, Tara still being around is the reason we're doing the "long engagement" thing and living in separate houses. I don't trust her and Cecil to not get into a bloody, scary, knock-down, drag out fight to end all fights - and with an 8 year old in the house, it's just not an option to try moving them in together. My arms and hands still bear scars from separating Tara and Gunner. And - only real dog people will understand this - it's just not fair to move Tara in her last years into a new and unfamiliar house where she'd be relegated to the lower level of the house and have to deal with another dog with a personality similar to hers. Sometimes when you are charged with the care of someone, you have to do what's best for them, even if it's not the ideal situation.

I guess the pet sitter sees the way she laboriously makes her way on the stairs, stopping to sit and rest halfway down sometimes. Or the way she loses her balance and sometimes her back legs just give up, and she follows suit, flopping down wherever fate fells her. Or the poopy accidents. Sometimes she doesn't even realize it's happening until it's too late. On good days I notice the telltale (telltail, ha) tail raise and get her outside on time. What I prefer to focus upon, though, are the good things: The way she hauls herself up off of her orthopedic dog bed to greet me when I come home, and the unbridled joy in her clouded eyes when she opens them, focuses, and realizes it's me. The way she still rolls on her back, kicking her legs up in the air and barking her demands for breakfast and dinner. Her habit of eating only part of her breakfast, pacing around until I make my eggs, waiting for me to top off the rest with a discarded yolk so she can finish up. The way, when I'm home, she is always aware of where I am, and is right there beside me. The once rough and tumble - now gentle and much abridged - play and wrestle times we have in the evenings.

I think I will know when it is time, and if maybe I don't see things as realistically as I should, I can count on my best friend, who also happens to be Tara's vet, to help guide my decision. What I do know, is that it's not time right now, but that doesn't mean it's not hard to be away, knowing our time left together is short.

I miss my girls already.

A year ago today ...

... I knew the time had come to let you go.  It was the hardest thing I'd ever had to do. When I left for work that day, I knew that the time was coming; I just thought maybe we had just a little more time together. All day at work, listening to grown adults bicker like children, it was all I could do to hold back my tears, thinking of you there at home without me. 

I came to the realization that it was I who was holding on - not you - when I left work to come home and spend time with you. It seemed you couldn't find any position that gave you comfort, and you didn't even seem to realize I was there. I watched you struggle to even raise your head off of the floor, and I cried, remembering better times:

You were my 21st birthday gift, the best birthday present I ever got in my life. I remember walking by your run in that filthy animal shelter, the way you just sat there, staring at me. Our eyes met and I knew that I was yours from that day on. Walking out of the shelter to the car, Kate's new dog Titan grabbed your tail and played a one-sided game of tug o' war with it. We got you to your new home and unleashed you in the tiny, fenced-in yard. You ran a circle around the perimeter of that yard for what? 20 minutes straight? You were so happy to finally be home. 

You were by my side through good times and bad. You moved with me 8 times in your life. I remember coming home from work at our first apartment, only to find you had pushed the screen out of the window, and were sitting on the roof, right next to the power lines going into the house! You liked to sit out there and scare the crap out of people walking down the street, barking at them from above. Remember living by the Clydesdale farm? You'd take off and come back hours later, wild-eyed, grinning ear to ear, and covered in horse manure. We moved in temporarily with Grandma while waiting for our rental house to be ready. How she loved you! You must have gained 10lbs in those couple months; all you had to do was look at Grandma with those big soulful eyes and go to your bowl, and she was hooked. You were famous for your appetite. I'll never forget coming back from a storage unit run during one move. We had left more than half a large pepperoni pizza up on the counter; when we got back we found an empty pizza box on the floor and a guilty-looking, yet satiated, Gunner - lying there right next to the empty pizza box. You were my comfort and my confidante in the bad times. I remember having to coax you out of the bathtub, where you would cringe and try to make yourself invisible when my ex and I fought. You were there for me during the messy breakup, and the moving around before I bought the house. Wherever I ended up, you were with me, and that was all you ever seemed to want. 

You made the funniest noises! You would never lie down without a long, drawn-out groan or sigh. I loved the little oinks of joy you would utter when I would lie down on the floor with you and rub your fluffy belly. Anyone who met you, loved you. You captured peoples' hearts with your big bear-like head and your gentle nature. The fact that, at 85lbs, you could sit up and beg like a little dog, left people wide-eyed and laughing at your talent. There was nothing in the world like a Gunner-hug to lift up a person who was feeling down. You would stand there, your head burrowed into my chest or lap, and all of my tears and cares and hurt would melt away into that soft, thick fur of yours. 

For 16 years you stayed by my side, wherever I went. On your last day, I brought you your own little pepperoni pizza, and I finally saw a little spark of the Gunner I remembered, as you scarfed that sucker down in about 4 bites. Then I helped you into the car for your last ride. When we arrived at the animal hospital, you weren't scared. You were never scared of the vet, because a visit to the vet to you meant that you got to see your friend Dr. Kate  - the one who had been there on your adoption day and who became your vet the moment she graduated veterinary school. We lay on the floor together, and I fed you cookies from the jar on the exam room counter. You didn't even notice the needle being inserted into the vein in your back leg; Dr. Kate had done it so gently. I saw a flash of blood in the syringe, indicating it had hit its mark. 

"Are you ready?" she asked, tears in her eyes. I can't imagine having to put your best friend's dog to sleep. She was almost as heartbroken as I was, but she had helped me to see that it was time. 

"Yes", I said, barely audibly. 

And with that, she slowly pushed down the plunger on the syringe. And you were gone. 

You hadn't a clue what happened, because you were busily gobbling cookies from my hand until the very moment your breathing stopped. If there is a better way for an old friend to go, I don't know what that might be. 

I miss you, Gunner. Rest, old boy. 

Gunner

?/?/1992 - 12/4/2007