The Home Stretch

We're almost there. I'm ready. She's not.

This is my girl, Luca. I adopted her in 2018. She'd been over-bred for her puppies then dumped at a shelter.

In October, she started drinking an excessive amount of water and peeing more frequently. Tests determined she had dangerously low protein in her blood and a UTI. Thus began months of different antibiotics until she finally got rid of the infection. At the vet's insistence, I switched her diet to prescription food, thinking it might be kidney stones

But the constant peeing continued. We put her on Proin, a medication to help with incontinence. That didn't work.

I know what this means and that it's not good. The vet says she's still vibrant and energetic. No signs of discomfort. She just pees a lot. That means double the walks. She often defiantly wriggles out of her diapers because she's stubborn like her mama. My floors are covered with tarps that i clean and disinfect daily and wee wee pads in case of accidents.

I know we're in the home stretch. I know that. I accept that. I lost my Mom very young. I have a matter-of-fact approach to loss and grief. I'm ready.

But she isn't.

She's still very much here. Very much alive. She still demands her treats and rolls on her side, looking for belly scratches.

12 years ago, my Dad went into respitory arrest and suffered brain damage. Doctors said there was no hope of rehabilitation. My sisters insisted they keep him on the machines. Until, finally, his organs began to shut down. I was so frustrated that they had waited so long. Why were they putting us all through this? It was obvious what needed to be done. I couldn't understand why they were prolonging the inevitable.

They didn't want to give up on him. They knew what was coming. After all my Dad had done for us, they felt they owed him that chance.

I get it now. It's not just the pull of obligation. It's the gratitude for having been blessed the way we were with a father who did as much as he did to give us the exceptional comforts and wisdom and care that he did.

I get it now.

I'm exhausted. My legs throb. My depression that resides just beneath the surface, waiting, makes a regular appearance when I least desire.

Even with all that, I'm grateful for being gifted with her. I'm not giving up on her until she's ready.

Thanks for listening.