It's between that time when the sun is halfway up and but the sky is still dark that I rouse both the dogs and lead them to the back door. The tiny one trots along ahead of me, showing off his strut and anxious to start his day, The little dachshund takes it far slower – one cautious step at a time to compensate for his lack of sight – and carefully hesitant. I stay close to him and coax him along and eventually he makes it to the back door where after a moment of consideration, he finally steps through the doorway and with both front paws on the deck but both back ones still in the house, he hikes his leg and pees on the doorstep then looks up and over his shoulder at me with a clear expression of pride and accomplishment. There's nothing to be done except to laugh, ruffle his coat and tell him he's a good boy.
“Close enough,” I tell him and give him a hug, It's far easier than the unbearable sadness of seeing him old and tired and slow and trying so hard. I tell myself it's just the beginning and we still have plenty of time but the truth is that he's in his last days – fourteen, a little deaf and nearly blind from cataracts, less agile and less active, preferring to sleep and dream his days and nights away, often right next to me but more often stretched out on his side by the air vent, his beloved Lambchop close by but no longer played with. I frequently reach out and make sure he's still breathing but I am not at all sure my heart can stand this for very long. The thought of losing him, inevitable as it is,
paralyzes me.
Of all the dogs I've had, this is the happiest, the most loving, the most curious, even tempered, and well behaved. He is a true gift from God. Watching him decline is agonizing.
“How lucky am I, to have something that makes saying goodbye to so hard.”
A.A. Milne
