My Dying Dog

I wrote about this before and I'll write about it again.

My Kayla is dying.  My 12 year old black lab has lymphoma.  I don't know how long she has.  No clue.  One month?  Six months?  One year?  One week?  I noticed that as soon as the vet gave me the diagnoses, she became "my dying dog."  You can't imagine the emotion that evokes, or maybe you, whoever you are, can?

She's still eating, walking, although much slower and not as far, and she plays, but she's still my dying dog.  Sometimes, I look at her, it hits me. I hold her tight and wonder  when I'm going to know, how I'm going to go through with it, and how I'm going to make it without her and her big bark.

I'm not brave.

I have to drag myself back into the moment, realize she's still living!  She still rolls over for a belly rub, puts her head in my lap, gives me paws for cookies, and kisses me.  Thank God for today's pain medications which I was just told I can increase to three times a day, when she needs it,

I read some online stories about lymphoma.  They seem to go pretty quick, but my Kayla, she's determined to hang in there, never complaining, always saying please, forever grateful.

Dogs have such resilient personalities.  In all these years, I've only seen her upset a few times.  She follows me from room to room, her legs stiff, her weight down from 90 to 81 right now, But it's time for me to wonder to bed so my Kayla girl can lay on her bed beside mine for the night. I don't want to end with this journal being morbid, but I can't think of anything funny to say right. now.