A Heavy Heart

Happier Days with Lilly (aka Boo Doo, Cake Minister D)

Lilly Dog is not well. I have a feeling she's living her last days, that's how not well she is. Our never-miss-a-meal girl didn't eat Monday or Tuesday or Wednesday. Nor did she come upstairs to sleep on our bed, where she's slept since her first days joining the family eleven years ago. She's having a hard time moving around, is breathing hard and swelling in various parts of her body. The light in her eyes is dim, very dim.

We had a vet come to the house Thursday and he agreed that she's seriously ill and likely won't get better.  The collecting fluid may well be hemmoraghing or internal bleeding from tumors (there is a hard section we can feel under her abdomen). We opted for blood work and don't know the results of that yet. Matthew and I are both clear that we won't opt for intense interventions to prolong her life, not even the expensive ultrasounds that might give us more specific information about what's wrong. If you saw her this week, you would agree that this is not a quality of life worth preserving. If you ever witnessed how distraught Lilly girl gets in veterinarian offices (as in, bolt across four lanes of traffic if she wasn't being securely carried in by two strong adults), you'd understand that we can't take her there now.

We're talking about euthanasia at home and wondering if we should allow Noah to witness that. I think not, in part because he has no appreciation for the seriousness of the situation and I worry that our heavy sadness and tears will be overwhelming to him. It's been a struggle to parent in the last few days;  his chatty, self-centered essence is one of lightness and constant need, when I really want to revel in grief for a few hours. I'm getting some of that time today. I got a couple hours of it in the middle of the night, too, after waking up to let Lilly out to pee (she almost never goes out in the night so it's yet another reminder that something's very wrong).

Maybe Noah's actually a gift in that sense, because I am able to function normally when we're active and out of the house. It's laying my body full length against Lilly and stroking her ever-so-soft fur (with the faintest smell of tortillas) that brings on the gasping tears. I have long joked with Matthew that, when Lilly died (in the far away future, that was), I would have her stuffed and mounted so we could always stroke her magnificent fur. I don't think that will come to pass.

The only break in this heavy grief came when she ate the chicken liver and rice stew I made for her yesterday afternoon. She's eaten more of that since and taken some medicine that way, but it's not making her well.