My puppy is, little by little, dying. She still eats, with a sometimes desperately eager appetite. She drinks deeply. She smiles a lot during short, sniffy walks. She has normal, regular bowel movements, and by that I mean her poops, consistently, are some of the healthiest looking poops I’ve ever seen from her. Sorry… probably went overboard about her poops, but she’s always been one for what vets call dietary indiscretions, which obviously would affect her poops.
That’s about the only thing she would ever challenge me on. She was willing to risk correction when it came to eating anything that she found interesting. Other than that she always has been one hundred percent willing to do whatever I asked of her, even when it wasn’t easy. That’s partly because she’s a Springer… they get pleasure from pleasing you, which is a beautiful trait. But it’s also because she feels somehow connected to me. Just like I feel connected to her.
We’ve been pretty inseparable for nearly a decade and a half, and we’ve been through a lot together. I have watched her experience a full lifetime, while she has watched me stumble into old age. I turn seventy this year, and truth be told, watching Sadie fade while experiencing my own diminishing drift has been a sweet, sad chapter. But in its own way, this dog’s tale also hints at one possible, perhaps even admirable, path to follow to help me find my own way home.