In my last post I quoted Mirriam-Websters definition of bravery. Here it is again: “having or showing mental or moral strength to face danger, fear, or difficulty.” I waxed poetic about improving my bass playing, going outside my comfort zone, and of course, my writing. I even made a graphic with our new kitten, Simon, that says: Be Brave! I’ll post it another time. My orignal post was in March and now it’s May.

What happened to being brave?

Life happened. Of course that really doesn’t change anything does it? Life happens no matter what. And sometimes it takes acts of bravery to get throught it. I had to make a decision that took a lot out of me. I had to be brave.

The Friday before Christmas of 2017 my mother had a stroke. While she was in the hospital, I took care of her little black poodle, Sandy. Mom developed vascular dementia. My sisters and I put her in memory care. It was a good decision. They could take better care of her and we could visit and just be with our mom.

Sandy became my dog. She was a rescue when Mom adopted her. We think she was abused by a man. She didn’t like men at all, and would bark at my husband and son. She would yell at them all the time, and when my husband would try to kiss me, she got very upset. It did cause some issues, but I have a wonderful husband and great children. They understood I needed to take care of her. I needed to take of her for mom.

Sandy was a senior dog when she came to live with me. She had gray on her muzzle and in her fur, but she was still playful. She had her favorite toy, a hot pink and green squeaky bone. Sandy knew when my car came down the hill and would bark incessantly until I opened the front door. We were sure our neighbors would call animal control and tell them we were abusing her. Our neighbors knew better. Sometimes my family would let her out when I parked. She would run to my car panting, wagging her tail, do zoomies, and was just happy to see me.

Senior dogs can develop health issues like we do. Mom was a heavy smoker, and Sandy had a smoker’s cough. She would do her zoomies and at the end would cough and hack. And like us human, they can develop dementia. It’s called Canine Cognitive Disorder. This is what happened to Sandy.

The first episode happened in the Summer of 2022. It was horrible. She didn’t know me. She shivered and acted afraid of me. She wasn’t eating. There was no playing with her toy. No barking at my family. She didn’t sit on the couch with me. She didn’t sleep at the foot of the bed anymore. Sandy’s safe place was under the bed. A call to our vet said is was probably dementia. We couldn’t afford the tests that could really determine the diagnosis, but all the symptoms were there. I didn’t know what to do. I froze.

What if she gets worse?

Can I handle it?

Luckily, I didn’t have to do anything. She came out of it. The barking started back up, she annoyed my husband and son, and all was right with my world.

Until it wasn’t.

Once again, Sandy changed. Once again, she didn’t know me. No more barking. No more recognition. She did act a little afraid, but there wasn’t the shivering like last time. Her appetite left. No more sitting on the couch with me. And she was sleeping under the bed under the bed again. My heart broke. Once again, I spoke to our vet.

Now, I had to think of the other option.

The one I didn’t want to do.

The decision I didn’t want to make.

I decided to see if Sandy got better like last time. I watched and analyzed every little thing she did. I’d check under the bed to see if she was breathing and hoping she wasn’t.

“Is she getting better?” I constantly asked my husband.

I have the best husband in the world. He didn’t like Sandy at all. I guess you could say they were frenemies, but he didn’t force any decisions on me. He told me to wait until I thought it was time. The thing was, I didn’t know.

What do I do?

She’s still sleeping under the bed. She wakes up every hour during the night thinking it’s time for food. Neither one of us got any sleep.

This was tearing me apart. I couldn’t write. I couldn’t play my bass. I couldn’t cross stitch. I was barely functioning. Mom had dementia and now I was reliving it with Sandy. My family worried about me.

One Friday, I had taken my son to a PT appointment and while I waited, I did some research on when to euthanize a dog with dementia. I found this site dogdementia.com. It has a lot of imformation and support for dog owners in this situation.

I read the article, Euthanizing My Dog With Dementia by Eileen Anderson. It helped me so much. The words, “Better a week too early, than a day too late” stuck with me.

Once again I watched Sandy. I analyzed her every move. Questioned everything. Checked under the bed hoping…

She was eating better, but still under the bed. At night she was up every thirty minutes to an hour thinking is was time to be fed. The coughing and hacking got worse. That phrase came back to me time and time again, “better a week too early than a day too late.”

I had to make that decision. I didn’t want to. I wanted someone else to do it for me, but there wasn’t anyone else. I had to be brave when I didn’t want to. I had to be brave and do what’s best for Sandy.

Mom passed in 2019, and on May 12, 2023 I sent Sandy to go live with her. She was the last thing I had of Mom and it was like losing her all over again.

It was the one of the hardest things I had to do. I know it was the right decision. I don’t regret it. The one thing I do wonder: was I that one day too late. Did I make Sandy suffer unnecessarily?

My sisters told me I gave Sandy a good life and she was happy with me. I hope so.

I miss her. I miss the greetings when I came home from work. I miss her unconditonal love for me. But I know she’s in a better place where she can run and play. Where she can do her zoomies without coughing and hacking.