At dinner last night, I commented that I needed to put my
flag out today. Dad asked why, and I responded because it’s Independence Day—the
important one (180 years!). He looked confused, and Mom clarified, “Texas
Independence Day.” He asked if they had a flag to fly, and Mom said they did
but it was too big for the pole they have. He didn’t seem overly upset about
it, and I see that they did not rig it hang from their front porch. I doubt he
even remembered it by this morning (or even last night soon after the conversation),
although if he noticed my Texas flag flying, he probably repeated most of last
night’s conversation with Mom.
Today is also important to me because my third Brittany
would have turned 14 today. Long before I got her, I decided I would name her
Chloe because of Spike Jones’s song “Chloe” that I used to listen to with my
grandfather on 8-track tapes. I was going to make her registered name something
related to the song, but then she was born on March 2, and I went with Chloe’s
Dreamin’ of Texas.
Bonds with all dogs are special because they worm their way
into your heart and become part of you. Fortunate dog owners are blessed with a
dog who knows them as well as or better than they know themselves. My first
Brittany was like that. I was grateful for the 12+ years we had each other. I
was doubly blessed because Chloe was also like that. If I believed in
reincarnation, I’d swear Chloe had been Gen.
Chloe loved Meghan too, but she and I had the bond. She knew
what I wanted, often before I did, although that could be a problem in the
obedience ring when she anticipated a command; she would sit with me and
comfort me when I was down or upset, and she knew what to do to make me laugh,
also a problem in the obedience ring when she decided to do something other
than the exercise at hand to elicit a laugh. And yes, I’d at least give her a
smile when she caused us to bust.
After she had her puppies, and I had her spayed, she became
a therapy dog with a local program and set about making others smile. She was
often the wired Brittany just holding her joyous self together to behave on the
visit, occasionally breaking into whirling-dervish style spinning, but she also
could read other people, especially the kids. She got one scared toddler to
smile when the little girl helped me “train” her to sit and lie down, opening
the little one up to visiting with the rest of the dogs on the team. On another
visit, I had her on a sit to chill for a moment to visit a boy—about 5 or 6—who
had been eagerly anticipating the team’s visit. I told him Chloe was going to
sit for a minute before he petted her and started to introduce her, but he
headed straight for her. I thought, uh-oh, we’re going to have a big problem if
she jumps and pulls his IV line. Instead, after only a couple of his steps, and
before I could react, she broke her sit to lie down and stayed put while he
petted her.
She was always so together despite her barely contained energy.
The only time I really saw her stressed was when someone shot off fireworks too
close to the house and during my divorce when I was gone for a few months and
seeing her only when I came to pack my stuff. Understandable. It took a few
weeks of living together again for her to get back to normal form.
She was 10 then, and by the time she was 11, I started
noticing some changes in her behavior. She started getting confused sometimes
within the house, standing in one spot as if she didn’t quite know what she was
supposed to do. It wasn’t just being still and listening or smelling something.
I’d speak to her and break the spell, and she would go lie down some place or
get a drink or whatever. She got to where she wanted to be near me nearly all
the time. I put a crate near my work area so she could be comfy there but close
to me. Then she started wandering the house periodically during the night. I
started crating her since I already had weird sleep patterns.
I had already seen signs of arthritis, which was normal for
a dog her age, but as she turned 12, she started having trouble breathing. It
took little to make her pant, and the panting was raspy. The vet spent a long
time listening to her lungs at her physical and told me that just like humans,
dogs’ lungs can stiffen or harden as they age. He told me not to worry but to
call and bring her in if needed. I started taking her on walks alone, just
around the cul de sac, going at her pace since she could not keep up with Chase
and Rosie, two puppies from her second litter. She liked to walk along and
sniff stuff and mark it when necessary.
All of that was quite workable, but her general behavior got
stranger and stranger. She had more episodes of standing and not knowing what
to do. She moved from spot to spot to sleep—not the standard changing places
like she used to do, but like she didn’t know the right place for her. She
slept the deep old-dog sleep, but when she wasn’t asleep, she would want to go
out every few minutes. I was lucky to get 10-15 minutes. Sometimes it was every
two to three. She was not to be deterred. Telling her to lie down didn’t make
much difference. She did, but it didn’t last. It was frustrating and exhausting
for me, although it did help with that 10,000 steps a day bit. I’d shut the
crate door to get a break, but before long she would be clicking on the door
for me to let her out. She didn’t settle until sleep hit again. She would panic
at normal activities like me handling her feet for trimming her nails.
I started doing some investigating online and confirmed that
dogs can develop a form of dementia—canine cognitive disorder. She had nearly
all the signs of it. I didn’t take her to the vet for it since there’s nothing
much that can be done. Even if medicines could help, I couldn’t afford them. I
just worked with it the best I could.
I vacillated between sympathy, frustration, sadness,
downright anger and guilt over being frustrated and angry. She couldn’t help the
disease and her behavior any more than Dad or anyone else can. I had been
dreading when I would lose her, but with this, I knew it would be a blessing,
and I did my best to make her days good.
We’d walk outside regularly, sometimes only two or three
houses, depending on her breathing. She enjoyed being out there and collecting
the smells. I gave her foods with lots of flavor and that were easy to chew.
She’d do simple tricks I asked for, and I’d toss a toy or ball just a few feet
for her to retrieve. I’d help her into the back seat and take her for a ride—just
her—when I went to pay a bill or some other close errand. We snuggled lots,
usually on the floor since she couldn’t jump on the bed or couch and seemed to
be disoriented there if I lifted her up. Sometimes it seemed like touching her
was painful. I didn’t know whether it really physically hurt or it was just
part of the dementia, so the snuggling was gentle and at her pace and how long
she wanted it. She’d smile at me when I did it right.
One April evening last year a few weeks after she turned 13,
she came up and sat in front of me. I was going to keep working on whatever I
was doing, but I looked into her eyes and decided to sit on the floor with her.
I scratched her chest lightly, and she dropped her head and pushed it into my
chest, resting it there and letting me rub her all over just like we used to
do. I found the good spot behind her ear, and she thanked me with a canine hug
against my shoulder/neck.
Late the next day after a good day of sleeping and a chewy
bone for an afternoon snackie, I let all three out in the yard. She
disappeared, which was normal, and I went looking for her since she couldn’t
hear me call, and I found her frozen stock still behind the garage. I touched
her, and she took a couple of steps and slowly collapsed. Less than an hour later
she slipped away in my arms at the vet’s office.
I knew she would tell me when it was time, but I hadn’t
expected it to be quite so dramatic. It wasn’t that way with my other dogs. In
true Chloe form, though, she had waited until the end of my work day. I had
been snowed under with editing that day, and she not only gave no signs of
having problems throughout the day that would cause me concern but had had a
day pretty much like her days had been before she developed the memory
problems. I don’t know how she knew what my schedule was like or how she
managed to time it the way she did between the end of my day and the time the
vet’s office closed, but she did. That was Chloe, knowing me better than I know
myself.
And, this is even more bizarre. Miss Texas Independence Day
dog chose San Jacinto Day—the day Texas won the war and independence—as her
last day here. Go figure.
She made my life so much richer, despite the problems of the
last couple years of her life, and I am a better person because of her, just as
I grew with Bear, Gen and Toby, and as I am still learning from Chase and Rosie.
I’m so glad dogs put up with us. Perhaps we amuse them. Perhaps they grow in
some way too, although lots of times I think they are the higher beings. Perhaps
they stay because of new squeaky toys and we can operate the can opener. But
maybe, just maybe, they’re in it simply because they love us too.
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