Old dogs and memories. . .

Earlier this week, one of my blog friends, Brigid, over at Home on the Range, wrote a heart wrenching post the day her beloved Black Lab, Barkley, died.  I knew it was coming.  Barkley had bone cancer.  But there is always that hope.  Maybe he really didn't have bone cancer.  Maybe they could cure him. Maybe. . . The mind can justify anything.

I'm headed down that road right now myself.  Molly, my 12 year old Lab, has cancer of the bladder.  Sometimes I'm in denial.  I will admit it.  The vet could be wrong.  Whoever ran the urine test could be wrong. . . Then there are the signs that I try to ignore.  She spends more time in her cage than usual.  She forgets her house training at times.  Then there are the good signs.  She still gets excited when I give her a raw bone.  She loves to get attention.  I took her for a walk this weekend.  Okay, maybe she didn't go at her old pace, but I know she enjoyed getting out.

My hairdresser told me recently that she had a dog many years ago and when it died, after a long life, she swore she would never get another dog because she could not deal with the death of a dog again.  You know the day you bring home a squirming-into-everything-puppy that someday you will have to say goodbye.

I've done it twice before now and each time it throws your mind and body into a turmoil for weeks or months.  You never forget the feeling.

Molly has been a good dog.  She knows my feelings.  She knows when I've had a bad day.  She knows I will take care of her.  She has more intelligence and sensitivity than a lot of humans I have met.  She has given me years of happy moments.  Kids grow up and leave home and don't need you anymore.  A dog needs you until the day it dies.