We
all take journeys that we don’t want to make.
It may be a visit to a distant relative’s home, a wedding, or even a dentist, but it's necessary and something we need to do. At times, it may also be a mental journey, such
as waiting for an announcement, job, or results from the Doctor. Some mental journeys can overwhelm us with
pain or worry until we know the outcome.
This
past Tuesday, I made that journey along with a trip to Louisville with Abbie. The road trip only lasted for part of the
day; the mental journey will last my lifetime.
In the back of my mind, I knew this day would come, something I have even
talked to Elaine about in the past but was surprised of the situation and dog…
Abbie
has inoperable cancer and is dying of lymphoma.
Everything was confirmed at the Oncologist’s office in Louisville from a
complete exam along with many tests, and it can affect any dog at any age. Since my “hunch” something is “just not right,”
my life has been and is upside down at the very least. As I knew this day would come, I always expected
that their demise would be from old age or injury. I would never have expected a dog in her
prime, full of health and energy fall to such a devastating disease, but I soon
found out I was wrong, so very very wrong…
Very
few people really know Abbie like I do.
She is a pup from Molly and Clancy, who was returned to us twice. The last time she came “home,” we loved her
so much we kept her. She melted our
hearts and will lick your eyebrows right off your face. She is my dog and my protector and will growl
at anything but what no-one ever sees is the sweetness in her ways. She will stand in front of me and reach up
for me to pick her up and hold her, which I do while she hugs me with both paws and licks my face. She always sleeps in my lap while we are
watching TV, and when sleeping in bed, she will keep any harm from our warm and safe place.
During
the entire trip in the car to and from Louisville, she sat and watched me with
her big black eyes and would paw at my arm as a signal for me to touch her, which I did. Even at the Oncologist’s
office, she jumped in my lap and peacefully slept as I stroked her face. In my blog last week, I talked about my walk
with Abbie in the early morning hours but what I left out was that I cried like
a child most of the time. She stayed by
my side, wondering what was wrong, trying to fix me in her own way; little did
she know, I was trying to fix her, but I can't. I’ve cried with nearly everyone I have talked
to about this, Doctors, family, friends and even a lady at Walmart that I have
never met; she teared up too, touching my shoulder and saying, “God bless you.”
Don’t
get me wrong, I love all of them and would feel the same for any one of my
dogs, but Abbie had a rough start and will have a very rough end. She will be the only dog that I brought into
this life here at the farm, and I will also bury her at the farm. Abbie is my complete circle from beginning
to end. My job is to be with her and to make her as
comfortable as she can be. She may last six
weeks or months; many factors will play into this. But when “the” time comes, my “most”
important thing for her is to help make her transition as peaceful and
loving as I can. Something I wrote last
year will come true for both of us.
"If
a dog could tell us 10 things” Insights spoken from a dog…
#10
“Please go with me on “that” difficult journey. Never say: “I can’t watch, it’s too painful.”
Everything is easier for me when you are with me, even death, this is when I
need you the most… and then I know you love me as much as I love you. Your face
will be the last thing I will ever see.”
A
friend told me when she helped her dog cross the bridge, she did this, “I put
my nose to hers and felt her last breath on my face as she went off to the
Rainbow Bridge"... and I will too…
The
night after our trip to Louisville, we settled down for bed; Abbie jumped up to
her spot, curled around in a circle, placed her chin on my shoulder, and pawed
me for attention. As I stroked her body,
I thought of how many more nights will I be able to do this… as we both fell asleep.
Please…
Please… give your dog a hug tonight, tomorrow, and always, along with your love…
It’s
not always roses here at the farm, sometimes it hurts very much. I’ve always said this blog is “what happened
this week”, and this was my week… The morning of the visit to Louisville, I ask
God to take this burden from me, and if it wasn’t to be, I ask him to help me
with the pain… He has a big job coming…
Ken