This is how I want to remember her. Smiling and happy and with a scarf on her head.
Last Monday, September 9, Pammy has left me. It happened suddenly, with very little suffering which was a blessing, but I still have to recover from the shock. She was such a happy, lively funny dog. Noisy, chatty, demanding. It was like having five big dogs in one for how much she was a presence in this house. Wherever you turned, there she was. you couldn’t be alone for a moment with her around. Not a day – actually not even four of five hours – passed without having her doing something so fun that would get us cracking up laughing. She was a real blessing through this very hard past few years.
Last year she underwent mastectomy for a small tumor, and the recovery was incredibly fast, A few hours after surgery it was like nothing happened to her, she wanted to eat, she jumped on the stairs even if she had stitches running through her belly from top to end, and she even played. She was an elderly dog – we don’t know exactly how old she was, but 15 or 16 – who didn’t look one day older than three and still acted like a puppy. She was so strong and looked so good, we felt she was immortal.
But no one is. And an elderly dog, even with younger looks, is still an elderly dog. With elderly organs.
We noticed she had lost a bit of weight, but her energy was always the same, as was her appetite. We thought it was the first sign of her getting old combined with hot temperatures and the fact that she just never stood still.
Sunday evening she went out in the garden before bed, and as she came back in she asked for cookies, as always. She ate two big cookies and then we headed upstairs, to go to bed. Immediately she began to be restless. She wouldn’t sit down, going back and forth in the room. Then she began vomiting and we thought that what it was, she needed to empty her stomach. Maybe she ate something bad in the garden. But the vomit didn’t stop and she started to have a fever.
In the morning I rushed her to the vets where she was put under fluids and antibiotics. And then she had a seizure. The vet gave her something to sleep, to stop the seizures, then she ran a blood test and gave her an ultrasound. Her kidneys were shutting down, her liver was enlarged. There was nothing we could do. Nothing.
So, while she was still asleep, I held her and I did the only possible thing: I accompanied her on the other side. kissing her, telling her how much I loved her, asking her to come back if she wants because I’ll be here waiting for her.
And she went. Painlessly, surrounded by love.