"I Can't Believe It's Come To This" and other doggie tales.

Bruce has had Powder for 11 years now, and in fact, when we married, we actually also had Powder's brother Rusty. You might reasonably argue that I knew what I was getting into when I married a man with 2 90 lb. dogs. However, I don't think anyone could have predicted how things were going to go down a full decade later when, as a devoted wife, I began providing hospice care for an aged dog (who, as a somewhat relevant sidenote, really doesn't give a crap about me).

It all started a few years ago when Powder blew her knee out. The surgery seemed like a no-brainer at the time, so we shelled out about $1000 for the repair- she was 8 years old then and we thought she had some good years left in her. And she did. Now, we fast forward 3 years, and she has recently injured her other knee. Go ahead and call me a miserable human being, but Bruce and I have decided that we aren't subjecting either Powder or our wallets to a second round of surgery that she might not survive. She still gets around, but limping, and she doesn't appear to be in any pain. She eats, drinks, sleeps, and potties, albeit slower than she used to.

The one major change is that our wood floors terrify Powder now. Because of her bad leg, she slips and falls frequently on them, and once she is down, she can't get herself back up, and that results in full blown panic on her part. I've had to physically lift and carry her back to the carpet on several occasions. We've adjusted by letting her go outside through our master bedroom door that leads out onto the deck, so she can enter and exit with a little better grip on the carpet. Recently though, she has aged to the point where she is so unstable on the floors that she will no longer come out to the kitchen to eat or drink.

So, this is what it has come to:

I really can't believe I'm permitting this. I have seen now for the last dozen years how much funk accumulates around a dog's water dish, and now that behemoth is on my bedroom carpet. I'm torn between complete disgust, the desire for new carpet STAT, and sadness that we will probably soon say good-bye to an old friend. There's only downhill from here, I'm afraid.

I rescued a dog this weekend. And by "rescued" I mean: A strange little dog ran into my house through an open door so I made Bruce call its owner while I made chicken parmesan. The most interesting part was this: The owners, who we don't know, live only 3 or 4 blocks away, but it took them almost 90 minutes to make their way to our house for the pick-up.

Lastly, I return to Powder. She is a well-behaved dog, but not necessarily a well-trained dog. Her obedience revolves largely around the word "GIT." It has become an all purpose command that when said to her, Powder immediately stops whatever she is doing and walks away.

I shouldn't have been surprised, then, when Kate brought home this spelling test: