I’ve had seven dogs over my lifetime, plus four cats and seven birds. Each one held a special place in my heart, and every time one of them died, I felt genuine sadness.
But when I lost Abby, my 17-year-old Chihuahua/terrier mix, on Aug. 25, I was almost overcome by grief, the depth of which I can’t explain.
A year ago, after Abby had some routine bloodwork, my spouse and I learned she was in late Stage 3 renal failure, a common, incurable condition in older dogs. Aside from some significant weight loss, her symptoms were internal at the time.
Abby’s prognosis was three months or less without intervention, so we decided to put her on a special diet and protocol of bi-weekly injections to keep her red blood cell count up. It wouldn’t save her, but it bought her – and us – more time.
After nine months, we felt it was time to let nature take its course, so we kept her on the diet, but discontinued the shots.
Amazingly, she did well until just after she turned 17.
Fortunately, her decline was swift, and just as we had been told by Dr. Bob, we knew it was the right time to let her go. She knew it too.
In looking back, I think Abby taught me lessons about life and about dying. She was such a trooper ‘til the very end.
From the time she was found running along U.S. 301 South after being dumped there with her three puppies, this little dog showed grit and grace. Not much more than a puppy herself at the time, she fought to find ways to survive.
We have so many wonderful memories of our life with Abby. True to her Chihuahua genes, she was fiercely protective of us.
Otherwise, she was a quiet and affectionate, sometimes spicy but rather shy, devoted and loyal member of our pack.
I’m getting older and facing my own mortality, which Abby’s death has brought into sharper focus. I found myself thinking after she died how amazing it is that a small, furry creature like her could have had such a huge impact on me and my family. I never realized just how much until she was gone.
Abby needed only our care and affection but freely gave us unlimited, unconditional love. She never judged, never held grudges, never complained. She was always content to be near us, especially when we didn’t feel well. She was the best listener, a true companion.
We may have saved her in the very beginning, but over 17 years she actually saved us. Maybe, just maybe, that’s the reason dog is God spelled backwards.
All I know is how much we miss her.
Lois Kindle is a freelance writer and columnist for The Observer News. Contact her at lekindle@aol.com.
