Getting ready to get ready

Let’s talk about the ups and downs — and the inevitable outcome — of living with a senior dog.

Just me and my shadow

When is it time to say goodbye? 

It’s not a pleasant topic, but it’s one every dog owner eventually faces. And it’s a discussion Ted and I have been having the past few days.

I’ve seen so many posts on social media from people at shelters or vet clinics featuring happy senior dogs accompanied by heartwrenching posts: this dog was brought in by its owners to be euthanized, but we thought he/she still had time left, so we took him/her home and now it’s three years later and he/she is thriving!

I mean, OMG. No one wants to make that kind of mistake, right?

So, how do you tell the difference between letting go too soon and holding on too long?

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Good times, bad times.

The last few months have been challenging, to say the least. Our lives have been completely upended after Beezy’s accident. Everyone, including Pike and Gus, has been affected.

In addition to her mobility and incontinence issues, Beezy’s also battling a UTI. She responded well to her first round of antibiotics, but when her last culture showed lingering bacteria, the vet prescribed a stronger medication with a 15-day dose.

I stopped after 10. I couldn’t take it anymore.

I know this is going to sound like an exaggeration for the purpose of creating drama or humor, but I swear to you that it’s not. She was pooping 12 to 16 times a day. Every day. And not tiny, well-formed pooplets. Messy, full-on, giant poops.

I went from using 26 diapers a week to using 20 diapers EVERY DAY.

I’d take her outside, clean her up, put on a fresh diaper… and within 10 minutes, she’d go again.

Or, I'd leave her for a few seconds to grab a fresh diaper, and she'd wander around the kitchen, leaving small gifts everywhere. On more than one occasion, those unexpected gifts were unknowingly stepped in by humans and tracked on area rugs, requiring cleaning sessions before turning in for the night.

Because nothing guarantees a restful night of sleep like a cortisol bomb at bedtime!

It was exhausting — physically and mentally. And I doubt her issues were doing much to help the infection we were trying to treat.

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Patience is a virtue (that I temporarily misplaced).

I did not handle it well. And the situation was made worse by the fact that I was sleep-deprived — which, to be fair, was my own doing.

The night of Beezy’s accident, I wasn’t sure how much longer we’d have together. I wanted her to feel safe and comforted — and I wanted that comfort, too, if these were our last few days. So I slept beside her in our spare bedroom.

I slept with her the next night, too. And then the next one. And the one after that.

Before I knew it, I’d created a routine that wasn’t healthy for either of us — especially me. She snores and is a bed hog. I wasn’t sleeping because I either had no space, was worried I’d accidentally put my hand in something wet and gross (yes, that happened more than once), or because she was breathing so loudly that it sounded like a small jet airplane.

I became impatient and emotional during the day. I snapped at the dogs and at Ted. I couldn’t focus at work. I loathed myself for the person I’d become. Everyone was suffering, and something had to change.

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Facing the truth.

Maybe I’m deluding myself. Maybe she’s worse off than I want to admit. But I don’t think that’s the case.

She still has life in her. She takes me for a walk around the block most days. It’s not optional — she’s a bully after all. She starts on the journey, and I oblige and follow along while holding the leash.

She chews on toys. She snaps at Gus. She runs to the kitchen when it’s snack time.

She’s aware and engaged with the world around her.

And I don’t think she’s ready to leave it.

So it’s my job, as her guide, to figure out how to make this stage of life work better for all of us.

It occurred to me recently that she’s, in many ways, reverted to being a puppy — an old, perpetual puppy, but still a puppy. And I had loads of gear for raising one.

So I brought the interlocking puzzle mats, metal x-pen, and portable indoor potty up from the basement and set up a little space for her — a diaper-free zone where she can relax without me worrying she’ll destroy anything.

It’s only been a few days, but it’s already a success. She sleeps there at night and naps there during the day while I work or handle chores. She gets her independence, and I get a bit of mine back.

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Better days ahead?

Now that the antibiotic is out of her system, she seems to be doing MUCH better. We go back to the vet this week for another laser session and urine culture. If it detects more bacteria, I will be firm in my stance and request the first antibiotic.

So, this is not the end. At least, I don’t think it is. 

I mean, the lifespan of a French Bulldog is 10–12 years. She turned 12 at the end of August, and I’m pretty sure she is the last one of her litter still with us, so every day from this point on is just a bonus.

I don’t want to be selfish and keep her with us because I’m not ready to say goodbye. But I also don’t want to be selfish and say goodbye because she requires extra work and care. It’s a fine line to walk, and almost impossible to be completely objective. I’m too invested in her to see things in a way that an outsider would.

But, for now, as long as she seems to want to be here and isn’t in any pain, I’m going to do the work required to make sure she gets to live every single day she is able to.

Keep your paws crossed for us!

WOOF!