To add to my intense Uranus/Moon/Algol drama (which I have still not plumbed in depth on this blog due to constant new developments here in Green Acres Village, plus my two or three times weekly visits with paralyzed and nerve-damaged son Colin Cudmore in Majestic Care for the past 8 months, I now realize that my very own 17-year-old “puppy Shadow” has likely entered his final days in this body on this planet.
When passers-by meet sprightly puppy shadow on our long walks, and ask how old he is, they are surprised when I tell them “17,” and then add: “I’m 81 — he and I are about the same age — only he’s aging faster.”
About a month ago, I first noticed that Shadow seemed to have suddenly gotten spatially confused, as if dementia was clouding his awareness. Had to really keep an eye on him if we were out for a walk off-leash on a forest trail, or he might just start to go back the way we came. Also, he seemed to not hear or see me if I was at any distance — or even, yesterday, when standing right behind him as he barked to be let inside! When I reached down to touch him in jest, he was so startled he jumped!
Then, over the past two weeks, I notice that he’s been sleeping in the dark back room, overnight, very unusual. In fact, has never done that before. Also, he’s irritable with others, and didn’t even seem to recognize his great old friend Dan, who, even a week ago, could draw him out excited, just by the sound of his voice coming up the stairs to the front door.
Then last night, Shadow started panting around midnight, and since there was a thunderstorm in the area, and even a tornado warning for a while, I didn’t give it much thought, since he’s always been terrified of thunder, trembling like crazy, and needing to snuggle up to me on the bed.
Not last night, however.
I put him on the bed, expecting to wait out the storm with him crawling all over me, desperate; but no. Nor was he trembling; just panting, often with tongue out. The panting went on and on for hours, all night actually, five or six breathy pants at a time, then ten seconds off, then five or six again. Nose dry and warm. Not good. Around 3 AM I got up, put him on the floor and offered him water. Wasn’t interested.
Put him back on the bed and started looking up behaviors for when a dog begins to die: and found what I’ve outlined above.
But then, he wanted treats, as usual, this morning! — but not his regular food, which, up until today, he has craved.
I took him for a walk, knowing that it might just be for him to poop, as it turned out to be. Two big poops, totally normal looking, but probably twice as much as usual. Also, unusually large volume of urine on this walk. After pooping, he agreed to continue for about five blocks, but no further.
(This, after daily walks of 3-4 miles for 15 years!)
Yes, 15 years he’s been with me, by far the longest of any dog companion in my entire life. Usually they die early, of some kind of accident, like dear “Emma Joy Princess, Guardian of the Present Moment” (her full name) whose sudden death preceded “Curious George, the Silver Shadow . . . SUPERDOG!” (his full name) by only three weeks, and who was with me for her first and only three years.
LOSING EMMA.amended title page pdf
Since I’ve never owned a dog to advanced age, I’m not sure what I will do next. Just “wait for him to die?” Just go to vet, now, or when he shows he’s in pain, or starts urinating in the house, etc., and then “put him down?”
It’s funny how we usually try to keep humans (including ourselves) alive as long as possible, no matter what the quality of life. But our animals? We are willing to let them go more easily when they begin to show signs of failing — often only for our own convenience. Or even, as with Kentucky Derby horses, if they break a leg and are no longer useful. Yuck.
I don’t want to treat any living being without care and compassion. And yet I don’t want to spend lots of scarce money (I live on SS: $930/mo!) trying to keep either either one of us alive either, just to satisfy my own or others’ sentimental needs.
I’ve long admired what I heard about eskimos, that when they get old, they just walk away from the tribe, to die alone, so as not to be a burden. Some dogs do that too. Claudia, a friend of mine, when her dear doggie companion of many years moved through his finale, he jumped off her bed in the early morning to go outside as usual — and just didn’t return. She knew he had gone out to die, and was fine with it. Oh, of course she mourned; but she didn’t regret letting him out of the house that morning, and she didn’t try to find him.
According to Shirley MacLaine: “When your dog dies, get another dog!” Which I did, with Shadow, upon Emma’s departure.
Here’s the most recent photo I took of him, about a week ago. We were at Majestic Care, to visit with son Colin; about an hour had gone by; Shadow went and sat by the door, telling me it was time to go.
Oh, and how do I not know that the dementia and dying process I ascribe to Shadow is not the shadow of my own, with his faster than mine? Answer: I don’t.
On the other hand, yesterday, two items that I looked high and low for on my desk, were both finally found. The first one, a needed computer accessory, under a bunch of stuff that I hadn’t touched in years. WHAT? The second, a notebook with numerous lists I must attend to immediately, right underneath my ipad I had placed there after an hour of frantic searching.
I suspected then that someone from the spirit world was with me, likely deceased husband Jeff Joel (who died several years prior to either Emma or Shadow), to help me with something. What? After last night’s endless insomniac ordeal, holding space for puppy Shadow’s panting, now I think I know. Thanks, Jeff.
