The end (during the day)

Not surprisingly this story does not have a happy ending. My last text post was on Thursday, August 25th. Cassie is at the end of her days. She's tired. We're tired. We're crying so much our eyes sting. I put a post up on Facebook about Cassie's impending death and get 27 responses. That makes me sad too.

We spend the day with her sleeping. We go to sleep, worrying about Saturday coming up. We get jumpy every time we hear her move in the laundry room, where we have her sleeping. We get up to find that once more she's simply peed in her sleep, the urine leaking out of her.

It's obvious Friday morning that she isn't feeling well. Our cleaning lady is coming over and we make plans that Maxine and I will spend the day in my office, with Cassie and towels all over the floor -- the same as Ally's last days. Cassie walks from spot to spot, almost frenetic. Twice she goes under my desk and bumps her head. She's never done that. She walks behind the futon sofa a couple times, again something she's never done. Her only respite, and ours from worrying about her, is when she's sleeping or staring off into space laying down.

At various times we try to be near her. We touch her, we lay next to her, we pet her, we kiss her, and we murmer words of love that we hope she'll hear in her heart. It's very obvious that this is the end and that she is in a lot of discomfort. At some point, around 10(?) I can't take watching her this way and knowing that our appointment isn't for 24 hours. I propose to Maxine that today be the end, and tearily, we both agree. I call the vet and the tech says they're fully booked up. I prevail on her to ask the doctor and she comes back on the phone with 2 choices for this afternoon. I take the earlier one, 3:15

We continue to spend the day desperately trying to exude love so that Cassie can feel it completely in her being as we wait for the hour to arrive. At various times we become aware of milestones, like "Cassie has only 2 more hours to live." It's both tedious and more painful than anything else could be. I tell Maxine that this hurts more than losing either of my parents.

We count down the minutes. Around 1:30 we realize that our cleaning lady is getting ready to leave and Maxine goes out to see her, to thank her for spotting the original seizure and taking our little dog to the vet in the first place. She asks to come in and say her goodbyes. She kneels down and pets Cassie on the butt, then gets up and leaves. Maxine can see her crying as she goes.

Months earlier her daughter had told me that her mother was crying when she came home the day of the original seizure. Cassie isn't always an easy companion or a quiet one, but she's a permanence, an presence we're all always aware of. And, that's coming to an end...