My Sweet Old Dog

So we have this sweet old dog. I've mentioned her before: Here, here, and also here. We welcomed Natalia into our home more than thirteen years ago, when I was pregnant with Josh, and she's been a (smelly) part of our family ever since.

She wasn't always smelly, of course. At one point she was a wrinkly little red ball of fur, with enormous paws and an even bigger heart. And teeth that liked to rip every loose article of clothing I owned.

Viszlas are loyal, loving, and intelligent dogs. She has always been sensitive to our moods, has been gentle to our children, and has stolen roasts off our kitchen counter. She has been a source of great love and also great frustration. She has been a shredder of tissue, a giver of (too many) kisses, and our constant companion.

And now I'm not quite sure what to do.

Her health has been failing for many months now. She's nearly deaf, she has lots of really disgusting skin bumps, terrible breath, and her fur is more white than red. Her hip gives her trouble, and she can't always make it up the stairs. But yesterday morning, I saw that something terrible had happened to her overnight. I woke to find that she had thrown up and wet next to her blanket, that she could barely raise her head, and that she had lost control over her body. She couldn't stand, let alone walk, her head was tilted to one side, and her eye was twitching. I think she had a stroke.

We've cared for her gently since. We've carried her to the sunny spots on the lawn, have loved and rubbed her and watched her struggle to lift her head to drink water, and tried to coax her to eat anything. She's taken a couple of slices of torn-up bread, but refused dog food and chunks of chicken. She's been able to drink a little water. She doesn't seem to be in pain, and she greets us with a limp tail wag, but she's not much better than she was when she woke yesterday morning.

My sweet Tally. My sweet, loving, non-judgmental, kind-hearted, loyal friend.

Tomorrow we'll take her to our vet and see what he has to say. I'm terrified to hear what he has to say. I'm not ready to hear what he has to say.

So for one more night, I'll pretend that I'll wake up to find shredded tissues near all of our trash cans, that the noodles that fell to the ground during dinner will be gone from the floor, and that everything is going to be as it was last week, when I could still believe she'd be with us forever.