My dog is eleven now. She’s here last summer posing with her pal, Loki, a beautiful Siberian. We think she’s eleven, at least. The gray has completely covered her face. The vet and I can only speculate as she is a rescue. She rescued me.
I met her four years ago at a pet salon where she was looking for a home. I took her that day, and we’ve been best friends ever since. We have spent the last few years snuggled and exploring, moments at the beach and days in the park. She always makes me feel safe. She is silently protective.
She was scared when she found m, riddled with anxiety and separation fear. We needed each other. I needed to feel safe and loved. So did she. We found our soul mates.
The last eight months she has become a different girl. She sleeps more. She lost her will to run. She looked at me with eyes that said, “I’m tired.”
She lived a rough childhood, was bred too early, fought for her food and was transferred to differing homes. Trauma has taken its toll on her. She is sleeping more and more, swelling and bruising in her tummy, a bi-product of her Cushings Disease.
So, I will keep her happy and comfortable, loved and adored as long as possible. She is snoring and feeling the weight of her belly extension. I feel her weariness. She can not climb the stairs anymore. Her gait is slow.
I am so lucky to get to have been loved by this animal. She’s not going anywhere soon, Insaybto myself. my love must be strong enough to keep her forever. My realistic eyes see the change as her body breaks down, and its not so easy to observe.
Life is moving swiftly. I’m inside of it, feeling it all, and its okay. It’s all going to fucking be okay.