Tonight my 12-year-old black lab, Gidget, died. She looked to have died peacefully, which is all I can ask.
We knew she was going downhill. Her left rear leg was practically unusable and bunched up with severe arthritis. She was nearly blind, the years of nearly constant eye infections taking their toll. We had managed to keep her Addison's disease (inability to produce glucose) at bay with monthly shots. She had played host to many ear infections, anal gland infections (and subsequent removal thereof) and kennel cough.
Yet, through it all, she always had a kiss and a wag for anyone who gave her pets. I've never known a dog with a sweeter disposition toward everyone. A guard dog she was not.
She loved a good tussle, a rope bone, a dog biscuit, a soft place to sleep. She also loved attention and devoted a good portion of her waking hours to getting it. As a puppy, she'd do things like jump the fence, scramble madly through the house, bark, jump on us, and chew up the rug pads.
As an old dog, she'd simply walk up and nudge our elbow or hand with her nose, and sit down. She would even get frisky every once in a while, and go hunt up her rope bone or start barking for a tussle. She couldn't jump or bite or tug like she used to, but she still loved to roll around with me on the floor for a bit.
Tonight, I was looking through some old blankets for something I could use to wrap her body in, and I came across a rug pad that she had chewed up as a puppy. At the time, we'd been furious with her. Now we're using it as a shroud.
I know, I know. I sound pretty maudlin. But, if you've ever loved and lost a pet, then you'll permit me this moment of weakness.
That's a good girl, Gidge. We love you and will miss you.
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