I'm writing this from the floor of my living room sitting next to my old dog Flash. He's spending his last day with us, surrounded by love and calm. His liver has failed and he's stopped eating and moving much. He doesn't seem to be in pain, though it's a struggle to get up every few hours which he still does to relieve himself outside. He's eaten a little cat food and seemed to relish it, though a few licks were all he wanted. We're waiting for Monday, when his vet's office will be open and will help transition him to the end.
Yesterday was full of emergency and anxiety, trying to determine what was happening and what to do. The immediate crisis passed and we decided to wait, see how the weekend went and spend a last day together. Today has been peaceful and calm as we sit (or lie) in our customary spots surrounded by the normal sounds and sights of a weekend morning. Flash occasionally looks at me, checking in and communicating as always. The cats stay close, rubbing up against him though he ignores them. All I hope is that we get through the day and night without incident and not need to act until tomorrow.
Henry is alternately sad, confused and comforting. He asks me if I'm ready and I say I am. I say Flash is ready as well. I think this last day is helpful and hope it leaves peaceful memories and a greater understanding. I don't really know the best thing to do, but this feels right for now.
Friends and neighbors plan to stop by later. I decide what we really need is a coffeecake, and reach for my cookbooks to find the most complicated recipe I can.
Flash, October 17 2010
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