Only four days ago, I thought I was within hours, if not minutes, of losing Coda. For newer readers, that name refers to one of the seven dogs I’ve had in my adult life, and she’s particularly precious to me.
She is about twelve years old or so (we really don’t know, but let’s say plus or minus a year) and, due to a tumor near her heart, she isn’t going to be with us much longer. The past one hundred hours is a hundred hours I never thought I’d get, so I am grateful for them.
Why am I doing this post? Well, I have absolutely nothing new to say about the markets right now, so I’m not going to rehash anything. Plus, the outpouring of kind messages, as well as outright professional counsel and assistance from Slopers, has been overwhelming.
I never asked for anyone’s prayers, but they have been abundant all the same. Maybe that’s where those hundred hours came from in the first place.
In recent days, I have rarely been more than a few feet from her, which is one of the many benefits of being your own boss and working from home, the former of which started in 1992 and the latter of which began in 2007. I don’t have to ask anyone’s permission to be here. I wouldn’t ask anyway. This is where I belong, day or night.
The expression “half-life” has to do with radioactive decay, but I think a new term could be applied here. With every passing hour, she slows down a little bit more. Getting up is harder. Eating is less frequent. Even drinking isn’t happening that often.
I see her shutting down in front of my eyes, and in spite of the entreaties of at least one vet to euthanize her (which I did for two prior dogs, with a clear conscience and no regrets), it doesn’t feel right, at least not now. Everything is totally natural at this point, and as far as I can tell, she is experiencing neither pain nor anxiety. We tell her ceaselessly how loved she is.
The very few times Coda does choose to go out the dog door and head into the back yard, I follow her, whether it’s noon or 3 in the morning. She’s so tired that she just plops down and rests wherever she might be at a given moment. She’s even taken a fondness to laying on the deck for long spells.
When it rains, I bring her one of my jackets and drape it over her.
At this very moment, I have pulled a chair off the deck onto the yard and am watching her. We have a specialist coming over tomorrow, and I’m hoping she’s even still with us to be seen.
For now, however, we’re lucky to have each other. She’s lucky to be with a family that cares for her so deeply and gives her so much love and attention, and we’re lucky to have spent the past decade with her. She is a gentle, tender soul.
Going through this helps remind me to be grateful. I sleep on the sofa in the family room these days, just to be close to her, and the first thing I check when I wake up is to look over and make sure her chest is rising and falling. When I see that it is, I am so happy just to have one more day.
Hang in there, baby. Just give us just a little more time.
