Cole went from the Mr. Bean with a T-shirt and scarf who's still catching squirrels and mice, to projectile unmentionables coming out both ends... within a day.
By Thursday night, I was Googling the end game that lymphoma has in store for us and I was trying to make euthanasia plans for him on Friday. I will not let him have more than one bad day.
I stayed up with him all night. Dosed him every couple of hours with a cornucopia of drugs and essential oils and homemade chicken broth.
By morning, he was perky and I could've been mistaken for the one needing pink juice. Each time he cuts it close, it serves as a training run for the real thing.
Call it sleep deprivation coupled with stress, it forced me to confront what responsibilities I've saddled this dog with for 10 years.
He was born to chase squirrels. I demanded of him a full time companion, one who would tirelessly run thousands of miles with me.
Another dog would've told me to go run my marathon alone and call me when supper is ready.
He said:"When can we do that again?"
Another dog would've offered to guard the couch while I was working around the clock.
He insisted on trying to keep up.
Now that the Reaper has been courteous enough to leave an appointment reminder card with us last night, I struggle with the desire to make his last days as full of joy, squirrels, mice, homemade chicken, beef, salmon, love, not in any particular order-- and with a nagging egotist's woes of "what am going to do without my Bubbie?"
Looks like I'm going to have to put my big girl panties on soon and figure it out.
Meanwhile, Cole is feeling better, we worked together all day like nothing had happened, so I went tonight to the place I dread the most (town) and bought two beef roasts for his meals next week.
Our bags are packed, I now accept that he may be called any minute now, yet I refuse to give up hope.
We are Smiths, we shall be belligerent to the end!
