This photo has always reminded me of the painting with the farmer and his daughter, holding a pitchfork in front of their house. You know? This one? American Gothic, by Grant Wood:
It's especially appropriate because the dog on the left is a girl, and the dog on the right is a boy. Aww.
ANYWAYS.
Sasha (left) and Roscoe P. Coltrane (right) are our farm dogs. Sasha is a labrador retriever/chow chow cross, and Roscoe is a Pomeranian/any dog under 30lbs cross. They are indeed the ultimate mutts.
Sasha's interests include swimming, riding in trucks, rolling in dead stuff, and naps. Roscoe's hobbies are begging for food, trying to make you give him food, stealing food from the kids, and running around barking (he is a lovely little animal.)
Sadly, though, the clock is ticking on our doggies. Sasha is a geriatric now. She was born in the fall of 1999, so this fall, she will be turning 12 years old. At 60+lbs, and given that she is a mix of larger breeds, she has started to decline due to age. The muscles in her hips have virtually atrophied, meaning that she struggles to go up stairs, get out of her bed, and walk. She eats frequently but is losing weight - the knobs on her back are visible and her skin sags everywhere. She sleeps a LOT. She often forgets "rules" - like no barking - and if we don't stop her, she'll bark for 20 minutes at a time.
It sucks.
Scruffy's owned Sasha her whole life. When she was a young pup she went to work with him in his truck. For the past 7 years she's lived with us on our acreage, with her sidekick Roscoe (the Robin to her Batman.) She's never been injured or hurt, with the exception of one summer when she slipped on the dock at the lake and bruised her butt (try seeing a happy dog who can't wag her tail - funny.)
The vet has checked her out and tells us that there's pretty much nothing we can do, and that's okay. We aren't going to extend this dog's life for years with expensive and possibly painful treatments. Death is a part of life. We knew from the first day that our dog would go, and when his time comes, Roscoe will go too. Animals die before people. And it sucks.
I'm not sure Sasha will see the end of 2011. She has had a long, happy life for a dog. She's been surrounded by love, and had many days of cruising through the pasture, trying to catch a gopher and rolling in cow poop. And for the past 6 years, she's had Roscoe to keep her company when we weren't around.
I'm trying to prepare myself for the inevitable. This morning she got up and couldn't make it across the floor. I had to help her with support under her belly and coax her across. It was awful.
Happily, Sasha's good days still outweigh her bad ones. But when we see that her bad days outweigh her good ones, well, then we'll know it's time. For today, though, she's going to nap on the deck in the sunshine, and Boy Wonder will give her a belly rub, and she'll go to sleep tonight knowing she is loved. And I guess that will have to be good enough.
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