The Time I Do Not Want It To Be.

[captainsblog]

Our older dog is 13 years old. At least. Two years ago round this time, Tasha went in for a routine physical and came out with an indeterminate death sentence. The vet found a tumor on her butt- hemangioma perisitoma, if you're keeping score at home- but they told us that it's not especially invasive, and that while we could drop some significant dime on biopsying and ultimately removing it, the safer and saner course would be to watch and wait.

This, we've done.  A year ago, it was reported as essentially same old same old. We stayed the course. She was still her usual (mostly) smiling self- eating, sleeping, going out in roughly the same patterns that quickly developed after we adopted her in 2001.

The past several months, though? Less so. Sometime in wintertime, she began a regular and (if I may say so myself) annoying practice of waking up sometime in the 0400 hour, begging to go outside and then whining for her morning noms by no later than 5.  I've just acceded to these demands, rather than face the reality of what they portend. Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, she has never soiled the house (save one and only one time I scarily witnessed her having a seizure); she sleeps quietly and comfortably from whenever we retire (typically anywhere from 8-11 PM), and during the day, her outdoor needs seem tied to human distractions rather than canine needs.  If Eleanor and I are arguing, or even just routinely discussing a website or a New Yorker article, Tasha (who, Emily is convinced and I have no evidence to the contrary, is now deaf) heads straight for the back door and barks to be let out.  If only one of us is home, though? The demands are far fewer.

Things came to a head today- or, I should say, to a tail. Both of us humans were home all afternoon, and we occasionally communicate, as married humans do, and Tasha responded by wanting to be let out more often.  On one of the later afternoon exchanges, I accidentally caused some yelping on her part when the back screen door shut on her before her entire caboose was safely back within.  I apologized for the error, but worried far more when I saw blood on the hardwood. Blood which, Eleanor thinks, more likely came from the hemangioma perisitoma than from the tailus interruptus.

The grrl (and her younger "sister" dog) are both due for a new round of heartworm meds. I'd put off ordering them until this past Friday, when I became suddenly more solvent for such purposes, but also because Tasha is due for her annual heartworm test- and that requires an office visit, and a check on the tumor, and quite probably far less indeterminacy about the length of her sentence.

I (or Eleanor) will call them tomorrow, and we will get her in, probably Tuesday. (I'm stuck out of town from 9:30-5 tomorrow.) That's when we'll find out how much this malignancy has changed, and whether it's finally time to say goodbye to the neediest friend on four paws we've ever had.  Other than the things I've mentioned, she still looks as beautiful, and as "bright and alert" (as the vets say), and as loving, as she's ever been. Still. We don't follow her out to every corner of the yard to experience just how painful her life might be.

We've been to Rainbow Bridge three times since 2005 for our own animals, and have shared the sadness that others have made on that journey in that time, as well.  I'm not ready to pronounce her ready for her own rezzy, but  by this time Tuesday, I fear, I might be.

Comments

[xiphias.livejournal.com]

Well, that sucks.

[tilia-tomentosa.livejournal.com]

So do you have definite news yet?

*hugs*

[greenquotebook.livejournal.com]

(((HUGS)))