Farewell to Teddy

Easter has come and gone.  I love the stained glass window pictured above that is aptly named, 'The Flight of Souls'.   This original Tiffany window is installed in the Wade Chapel in Ohio.  My picture of it does not do it justice; in person it is absolutely breathtaking.

2015 has been a difficult year for us so far; we lost our dear dog, Pudding on New Year's Eve and sadly, Teddy was laid to rest on the Saturday before Easter.  After fourteen years of hearing the 'jingles' on his collar and his tiny toenails clicking on the floor, the house is now very, very silent. 

Teddy in his younger years...we were working on the Quarry construction then and his white coat was most often orange from the sand.  He loved to dig!  I wish I could have let him dig to his heart's content, but he'd get it in his eyes and his ears and then we'd have to go to the vet, so we had to curtail his excavations somewhat.

Teddy on his special pillow at Grandma's house, perched in the window.  Always the watch dog, making sure we were safe.

Teddy was Joel's dog, through and through.  He tolerated me as the one who groomed him and fed him, but Joel was his special person.   Whenever Joel would lie down on the floor, Teddy would jump up on his chest and his tail would go to beat the band.  He was always happiest then.

When I first brought Teddy home, an acquaintance remarked, "Why would you want a little dog like that?  He's not going to be any good out in the garden."  Another person referred to Teddy as a 'barking cat'.  True, he was all of ten pounds, but he thought he was a Big Dog.  He had a big dog's heart and was truly fearless.  Sparky, my mother's late great German Shepherd, and Teddy had a lot in common. 

Pudding

Teddy was an only dog until we adopted his sister, Pudding when they were both nine years old.  At first, Teddy's nose was a bit out of joint; he really couldn't see why he had to put up with this female interloper.  There was never any growling or snapping between them, but Teddy more or less gave Pudding the cold shoulder for months at a time.  Pudding was pushy with him; she went out the door first and her undying devotion to me made him have to play second fiddle to treats and petting. 

I was completely shocked when one day I found them in the same dog bed.  I knew then the hatchet had been buried, they'd come to an uneasy truce. 

Either that, or they were both too stubborn to move.

We had so many wonderful walkies together.  Teddy and I would walk for miles before Pudding came to live with us, he was an excellent walking companion. 

I can't really explain the hole in my heart; if you've ever loved a pet, you'll know what I mean.  Teddy's been gone three weeks now and I'm over the acute loss phase, but I still catch myself glancing at the couch to see how he's breathing.  His congestive heart failure was becoming more and more of an issue; he'd been medicated with what our vet called the 'trifecta' of heart medications for over two years which was remarkable in itself.  The usual progression of congestive heart failure can be much faster in some cases. 

Teddy in his 'old man' sweater that I made for him.  It has a picture of Teddy Bear on it, actually, but he did look like an old fella in it.

Teddy didn't like walking much in the last year.  He was happy to go outside for his potty breaks and sometimes stroll a little around the yard, but for the most part, the long walks were over.  He just didn't have the stamina for it any longer. 

Pudding was always my intrepid follower; where I went, she wanted to be.  She loved the fields and the woods, in my dreams she and Teddy are finally free of all their woes.

Teddy loved to run for home, he always had such a proud carriage.  Carl used to wonder how many Shih Tzu's it would take to pull a dog sled, not that we ever tried. 

Whenever I took him out in public, people always wanted to pet him.  He was adorable, but unfortunately had no use for strangers.  He had an attitude, no doubt, but once he got to know a person, he was fine.  I used to ask people, "If he was a big dog, such as a Rottweiler, would you just rush up and pet him?"  When they said, no, they'd probably be more cautious, I said, "Well he thinks he is a Rottweiler, so if you treat him with respect, he'll do the same for you."

He had an insatiable appetite for playing ball; I don't know how many times we threw his 'spike' ball for him; it was really amazing how he never tired of it.  We did grow tired of the game sometimes and would resort to putting his ball in a pair of blue jeans with the leg knotted loosely shut.  He would work on that knot for up to an hour if he had to and usually always succeeded in getting his ball free. 

In the picture above, he's 'mauling' his 'old man jacket' which was always his ritual after having it removed after a walk. 

Pudding, on the other hand, was everyone's friend, she would lick you to death if you let her.  But I have to admit, she was truly my dog.  Of all the dogs I've owned, she loved me completely.  Pudding, my Shadow.

Carl always said she'd sit and listen for my footsteps when I was outside, never resting until I came in to be with her.  I do miss her joyous welcomes so much.  When a dog loves you and they throw a ticker tape parade whenever you come home, it's such a wonderful thing.  To think you are the most important being in the world to a dog is, well, it's overwhelming.

Our time with our pets is far too short...their lives are accelerated so much.  I don't know if it's really true that every dog year is the equivalent of seven human years or not, but it does seem reasonable.  Both of them were fourteen, which in human years would make them ninety-eight.  A ripe old age, but still, too short.

They are together now; roaming the fields on the other side of the Rainbow Bridge, waiting for the day when we're reunited. 

As I said before, Teddy was slowing down.  He could still jump up on the couch (which is a massive feat, I could never jump up on something twice my height) but his eyesight was growing dimmer as time went on.  His hearing was also very bad, if I called him, he would run to the other room.  It was comical, and very sad.   I never petted him unless he knew I was there; he would startle so much it scared me; I was afraid he'd have a heart attack just from the fright of someone touching him when he didn't know they were there.  We always made sure to get his attention before we petted him; he was always grateful for the gentle scratch of his tummy. 

On his last morning, the Saturday before Easter, I woke up late.  I'd had a bad cold and had slept in.  Carl was home, and I asked him if Teddy had gone outside yet.  Carl said, no, he hadn't left his dog bed.  It was already 9AM; highly unusual.  Even with all of Teddy's water pills and failing eyesight and hearing, he never broke his potty training, so I knew he must not be feeling very well.  Still, he got up when I came up to check on him and wanted to go outside.  He made it to the driveway, but then started to teeter ever so slightly.  My heart sank.  I went out and got him back in the house, and he made it as far as the living room before his little legs gave out.  He was panting heavily and I saw the exact same signs that Pudding had the day she died.

I called Joel. We both knew what we had to do; it was time to say goodbye.  I tearfully made the call to our veterinarian; the office was closed.  Teddy was lying there looking at me, wondering why it was so hard to take a breath.  I took a chance and called another vet's office that had recently opened in our small town, and was happy to hear they would fit us into their busy schedule as soon as we arrived.  What a blessing it was, I am so very grateful to the staff.

Joel arrived and we wrapped Teddy up in his dog bed and drove the three miles to the clinic.  The procedure took a little while, but it was painless; Teddy turned to look at me one last time before the anesthesia took effect and it was all I could do to stifle my sobs.  I didn't want him to think we were upset.  We wanted him to be free from his suffering. 

I remembered when he was a much younger dog and had broken a dewclaw.  I had to take him to the vet to have the claw cut back, and they had to put him out for the procedure.  I remembered how heavy his little body felt when they handed him to me to take home to recover, how limp he was, and how I cradled him into his dog bed that time and petted him gently until he woke up.  The opposite was true this time, he was not going to wake up, but he was now finally at rest.

Our pets look to us to protect them, love them, and also know when to let them go, even when everything in our being wants to keep them with us for just a little while longer.  Their love never dies, as long as we remember them, they are always with us. 

Our dear old kitty, Screech, has been gone now for over five years, but I still think I see him when I'm working in the garden at times. 

Screech was seventeen years old and we'll never forget him, either. 

Our couch will never be the same; I'll always look twice before sitting down to make sure there aren't any tiny dogs perched on it.  Both of the dogs used to sit right next to me every day; it seems so empty now.  But we'll never, ever forget Teddy and Pudding.  How could we? 

Teddy was a Big Dog. 

There will never be another one like him.  

Rest in peace, my loves. 

Museum Tour

Last March, Carl and I toured a traveling Tiffany glass exhibit that came to Oshkosh, WI in 2014.  I was going to post about it sooner than this, but I'd misplaced the card from my digital camera until now.

You can read about the fascinating history of the windows here:

Seven Angels
and here:
Tiffany Exhibit

The thought of all seven of these windows being stored in barns and garages for decades is almost unbelievable.  It was such a privilege to see these artworks in person. 

Photography of the exhibit was not allowed, but I did take photos of the posters in the hall leading up to the gallery.  As we walked through the display with dozens of other visitors, no one spoke above a whisper, it was as if we were in a holy place.

Carl and I have always loved anything and everything Tiffany, and it is a very rare treat to actually be in the presence of such gorgeous antiquities.

The poster pictures above do not do the windows themselves justice.  They were indescribably beautiful.

After leaving the gallery, Carl and I toured the rest of the Oshkosh Public Museum which was at one time the home of Edgar P. Sawyer.

The mansion was converted to a museum in 1924.  The first time Carl and I toured the museum was probably in the late 1970's, just before we married.

This is the way the museum looks now; there was extensive remodeling done after a devastating third floor fire in 1994.  I remember watching the news when the fire happened and being just sick at heart.  The interior of the Sawyer mansion had been decorated by Tiffany Studios and contains two glorious windows.  We were allowed to photograph the windows but the next time I go I will be sure to bring a tripod to keep myself steady in the dim lighting.

These were the first Tiffany windows we had ever seen in person and they made a huge impression on us as young adults, eventually leading us to make reproduction Tiffany lamps of our own.  My apologies for the quality of the following photos, but in my defense, there were many visitors to the museum that day for the Seven Angels Exhibit and I didn't want to hold up traffic. 

This is the Wisteria entrance, and what a beauty it is.  From what I understand, this window was removed from the main entrance to the mansion to the new entrance in the addition, but apparently it will be eventually returned to it's original location.

 I love the way Tiffany's artists selected the glass for the wisteria clusters:

The background glass is called 'confetti' glass because of the shards of different colors of glass adhered to the surface.  Tiffany's artisans relied heavily on glass layering, too.  By using different colors of glass sandwiched together, they could add depth and shadows to their art.

I would love to have an entrance like this to my home.  (If my home were bigger than the hut it is.)

The other Tiffany window is at the head of the staircase in the mansion:

I vividly remember being all of eighteen years old the first time I saw this window.  I couldn't take my eyes off of it.  I also remember reading the 1994 news accounts of 'water rushing down the staircase like a massive waterfall' while the firefighters were trying to extinguish the flames in the third story.  I kept thinking of the stained glass and wondered if they would be able to save it.  Thankfully, they did.

This gorgeous scene is massive; and the only place I could find to unobtrusively take photos was from the balcony on the second floor.  A return visit with a tripod is definitely in order.

The artistry and shading in these windows is absolutely stunning.  And to think they were created over a century ago.

A close up of the rocks in the river, note all the layers of glass incorporated to define light.

Another closeup of the trees, so many gorgeous shades of green in the pines.

Ripple glass was used for texture along with plating.

Tiffany Studios trademark.

From any angle, the window is spectacular.

Coming down the steps from the second floor, I still cannot get over the thought of water cascading down these stairs.

And also dear to our hearts, are Tiffany lamps.  This lamp is installed on the ceiling in the main entrance.

Touring this museum all those years ago was the inspiration for a lifelong passion in stained glass work.  I have to admit that back then, I never thought we'd be fortunate enough to dabble in the art.  Having the real Tiffany windows available for public viewing in the museum is such a privilege.  After seeing those masterpieces, we always come away inspired and humbled.

Time for us to get back to work on our own 'masterpieces', winter is short!

My Appreciation

Since Pudding has passed away, I've been so blessed by my friends, both near and far.  To all of you who posted such touching messages of comfort, believe me when I say we were overwhelmed. Your kind words have helped us so much.  I'm sorry I didn't reply to any of the comments, the truth of the matter is I couldn't see to type until now without mopping my eyes.  Every message was extremely helpful and healing, and a mere thank you on my part seems so inadequate.  I'm deeply, deeply grateful.

I grew up on a farm and have seen life and death many times but it doesn't make it any easier.  I've also lost many people dear to me over the years, and I know, she was just a dog.  But those who love animals know the place they have in our hearts.

Pudding was camera-shy, she would always look away from the lens.

Life around here is empty without Pudding.  How I miss her happy barks of joy when I come in the door along with that tap-dancing frenzy she always embarked on.  Teddy is still with us, but he has also showed signs of missing her; he didn't want to eat for a few days and seems lost at times.  His eyesight and hearing are failing ever more and he sleeps a great deal.  I hesitate to pet him as much as I'd like because he startles so easily nowadays, so I save any petting for when he's completely aware of his surroundings. 

Teddy

 Teddy never was the affectionate fellow that Pudding was; he was always the athletic one with the guard dog mentality.  He does wag his tail now and then, but we haven't heard him bark in weeks.  He doesn't seem to be in physical pain, but we had to increase his heart medication a few months ago, so it is only a matter of time.  We will love him for as long as we're blessed to have him here.

Teddy a few years ago, always with a ball, Mr. Athlete.

I kept a lock of Pudding's hair to remember her by and I have her collar in the kitchen hanging by the refrigerator.  Every now and then I hear her tags jingle when I open or close the door and expect to look down and see her staring up at me with those adoring brown eyes.  I still find myself carefully moving my feet when I am at the dinner table as she loved to rest her head on my foot.  Her bed is still on the couch next to me as I write and every time I glance over at it, I'm reminded of her absence.  The day after she died, somehow my gray jacket was tossed on the couch and my heart skipped a beat when I saw it there in the dim light of late afternoon.  Could it be?  But no, just a ghost; how the heart yearns to see what it wants.  

Pudding and Teddy in better days, sleeping next to me on the couch.

 We buried Pudding by the biggest rocks in our garden; the same place our dear cat Screech was laid to rest.  One of my comments on my last post, from John at Deaf Dogs and Benevolent Gnomes was this lovely poem:

This is a poem by Ben Hur Lampman - Where to Bury a Dog

There are various places within which a dog may be buried. We are thinking now of a setter, whose coat was flame in the sunshine, and who, so far as we are aware, never entertained a mean or an unworthy thought. This setter is buried beneath a cherry tree, under four feet of garden loam, and at its proper season the cherry strews petals on the green lawn of his grave. Beneath a cherry tree, or an apple, or any flowering shrub of the garden, is an excellent place to bury a good dog. Beneath such trees, such shrubs, he slept in the drowsy summer, or gnawed at a flavorous bone, or lifted head to challenge some strange intruder. These are good places, in life or in death. Yet it is a small matter, and it touches sentiment more than anything else.

For if the dog be well remembered, if sometimes he leaps through your dreams actual as in life, eyes kindling, questing, asking, laughing, begging, it matters not at all where that dog sleeps at long and at last. On a hill where the wind is unrebuked and the trees are roaring, or beside a stream he knew in puppyhood, or somewhere in the flatness of a pasture land, where most exhilarating cattle graze. It is all one to the dog, and all one to you, and nothing is gained, and nothing lost -- if memory lives. But there is one best place to bury a dog. One place that is best of all.

If you bury him in this spot, the secret of which you must already have, he will come to you when you call -- come to you over the grim, dim frontiers of death, and down the well-remembered path, and to your side again. And though you call a dozen living dogs to heel they should not growl at him, nor resent his coming, for he is yours and he belongs there.

People may scoff at you, who see no lightest blade of grass bent by his footfall, who hear no whimper pitched too fine for mere audition, people who may never really have had a dog. Smile at them then, for you shall know something that is hidden from them, and which is well worth the knowing.

The one best place to bury a good dog is in the heart of his master. 


Remembering this poem, I went for a walk last night after dark.  The weather has been very strange this winter, we've gone from bitter cold in November/early December followed by a thaw and a Brown Christmas, followed by a small snow storm and then back to the deep-freeze for a week, but now we're having a thaw one more time.  The temps were in the upper 30's last night as I walked home from my mother's, I usually walk up there to check on her just before bedtime.   

 I didn't take Teddy with me for this walk; he's too tired to go that far now, but Pudding was always at my side.  Since our road is quite remote, I didn't put a leash on Pudding for the most part; she was always close by if I had to scoop her up if a vehicle did chance to come along.  Sometimes she would fall behind to check out a particularly tantalizing smell and then I would hear her little toenails come clicking down the road in happy pursuit.

Last night as I made my way home down our dark and lonely road, a wind sprang up out of the west, gently pushing me along.  Suddenly I heard a familiar clicking sound behind me and my heart jumped, could it be?

 No, it wasn't Pudding I was hearing, it was a newly cast-off oak leaf torn loose from a branch to skitter down the road ahead of me.

The leaf was like the blade of grass bent by Pudding's unseen footfall in the poem...

And finally, my dear friend Sharon sent me this lovely note:

Pudding's Last Will and Testament

Before humans die, they write their last will and testament and give their home and all they have to those they leave behind.  If, with my paws, I could do the same, this is what I'd ask.......

To a poor and lonely stray I'd give my happy home; my bowl and cozy bed, soft pillow and all my toys; the lap, which I loved so much; the hand that stroked my fur; and the sweet voice that spoke my name.  I'd will to the sad, scared shelter dog the place I had in my human's loving heart of which there seemed no bounds.

So, when I die, please do not say, "I will never have a pet again, for the loss and pain is more than I can stand."

Instead, go find an unloved dog, one whose life has held no joy or hope, and give my place to him.

This is the only thing I can give...

The love I leave behind.

I am with you always.

Thank you again for your kindness.  

Pudding: 2000-2014 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

At Peace

 Whenever my heart is heavy, I tend to write.  My heart is a leaden lump in my chest tonight and my eyes are mere slits.  Here it is, just after midnight, January 1, 2015.  Somewhere in the distance, people are shooting off fireworks in below zero temps to welcome in the New Year.

I immediately looked over at the dog beds on the couch to see if Teddy or Pudding needed reassurance that the noise wasn't a thunderstorm.

 Pudding, especially, hates thunderstorms.

 I should say, hated.

Pudding came to us in April of 2009.  I'm ashamed to admit it now, but at the time I reluctantly took her in. She was our dog Teddy's older sister by six months, and she needed a home.  Things at her former home were not good, she'd lost her potty-training at the age of eight or nine, was very thin and in bad need of grooming.

I really didn't want another dog, but Pudding had always had a special place in my heart.  I'd known her since she was a puppy, and she was a love. Somewhere along the line she'd been abused badly and was very timid, every time I tried to pet her, she went flat to the floor on her belly in complete submission.  The first few weeks were rough, she didn't want to sleep through the night and Teddy's nose was out of joint from losing his 'only dog' status.

As time went on, we worked out the kinks slowly, Pudding learned from Teddy that the place called Outside was where they used the bathroom and followed him every time, much to his dismay.  Teddy did learn to tolerate her eventually.  Though they weren't best buddies, there were no cross words or growls between them.

When Pudding realized this was going to be her Forever Home, she simply glowed and flourished.  What a love that dog had for me;  I cannot describe it, I did not deserve it, but I was her world.  Carl said she sat and waited by the door for me to come in from the garden, whining softly. He said she would watch the kitchen ceiling for shadows and when she heard me approach she would bark riotously.  Every time I came in the house from anywhere was a celebration.  She used to tap dance with her front paws in joy and make whining, throaty sounds as she circled my legs, taking one of my fingers gently in her mouth to show her affection.  Licks and kisses, were her specialty.  She was always ready with a kiss.  I gave her a bath and haircut on the 30th, and she kissed me as I groomed her feet. She was truly, truly, my dog.

Congestive heart failure entered our vocabulary two years ago; we knew it was progressive.  First Pudding and then Teddy acquired the diagnosis.  Medications were added as symptoms worsened and we hoped for the best.  Though Pudding had a very close call in May 2013 and again in November, she rallied one more time to the amazement of the emergency veterinarians and came home to us again, joyfully.



On Tuesday night, the 30th, we had a small get-together with some family here.  Pudding and Teddy played the canine host and hostess, patrolling for pats and any crumbs that might fall. 

After greeting everyone,  Pudding decided it was time for her evening meal and entertained the crowd with her habit of scratching the side of her dinner bowl with first one front paw and then the other in a very rhythmic motion as is her custom.

'Scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch,' went the left paw, 'Scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch', went the right, switching paws over and over.  She would always scratch her bowl for well over five minutes before she would eat.

Carl and I were so used to this noise that we completely tuned it out, but over the years all of our visitors would stare and want to know why she was going through this eccentric aerobic routine.  I explained that in the home Pudding lived in  before coming to us, her dog dish was a gravity-fed affair where the food in the upper canister fell down when the tray was emptied.  Sometimes the food got stuck, apparently, so she had to scratch to get it out.  Old habits die hard, and this idiosyncrasy stayed with her even though her food dish was now a bowl.  We didn't mind, in fact I used to delight in watching her rhythmic motions as she moved her dog dish across the floor.   She really put her all into the routine and it never annoyed me.

On Tuesday night she was in high-form, scritch-scratching her bowl across the dining room floor with our amused guests watching.  I sometimes think she enjoyed the attention, because she was always extra flamboyant with it when she had an audience.  I explained once again that this was just her 'thing' and watched her with proud amusement as she kept it up.  Little did I know this was to be the last time she would give us her performance.

When our guests left after midnight, I took both dogs out for their nighttime potty routine and tucked them into their beds. All seemed well.

Carl came into our bedroom at 6AM to wake me, "Pudding can't breathe very good, I think you need to give her another water pill."

I tore off my sleep apnea mask and went to her side.  She was gasping for air in a steady, rasping rhythm, I knew it wasn't good.  I grabbed a furosemide pill tried to get her to take it, but she couldn't.  I had to basically force her to get it down which made me feel so mean, but it was what I'd been told to do if this happened.

I called the vet's office.  It was New Year's Eve, they're not open tomorrow (today) and they were booked solid.  I told them it was an emergency so they said bring her in and we'll make you fit somehow.
The weather is bitterly cold here, so I wrapped Pudding in her blanket and with Carl behind the wheel, we drove the fifteen miles to the vet's office.  Pudding was struggling to breathe but the effort had lessened a little by the time we arrived.  I knew it wasn't good; I told Carl we'd better prepare ourselves for the worst because I didn't think this time we'd be so lucky. 

When we walked in, they whisked us off to a room and after the preliminary weigh in and temp check, the veterinarian came in with a little girl of about ten years old in tow.

 "Natalie is here today job shadowing me.  Is it ok if she stays for your visit?" asked the vet.

The tears were trickling down my cheeks, but one look at that terrified little girl staring at Pudding and then at me, and I didn't know what to say, so I shrugged.

 Natalie remained in the room with us.  Poor thing.

The vet checked over Pudding and said her heart murmur was definitely worse, but he didn't think she looked too bad.  I sniffled as I wiped my tears away, and he wanted to know what we were thinking, did we want to treat her, or were we thinking of putting her down?

"I'm sure you've had this conversation before, you knew almost two years ago with congestive heart failure what the outcome was going to be," Dr. said.  "If you think this is her time, I'm not going to second-guess you, the decision is yours."

Yes, we did know what the outcome would be.  Some day.  But the decision, the decision was......and the little girl standing there in her cute scrubs had her eyes fastened on Pudding and all I saw was dread.

"What would you do if she were your dog?" I asked.

"Well, that's a bit different, I can ease my dog's suffering if I need to, but tomorrow being New Year's Day, you'll have to go to the emergency vet again if she does decompensate because our clinic will be closed.  We could do an x-ray to see how things look and where we can go from here," Dr. B said. 

I looked to Carl for an answer.  "I think go ahead with the x-ray, maybe you can give her some of the same medicine she had a month ago.  She bounced right back then," Carl said.

Pudding was whisked off to the x-rays and we waited.  I cried (silently, I hope) as we waited.  Thank goodness the little girl job shadow went out the door with the vet.

I was ready to say goodbye.  Well, not ready, I don't think I'll ever be ready, but I was resigned to the fact that this is no quality of life for Pudding.  Carl felt I was being hasty, remember her miraculous return two years ago and most recently, a month ago.

The vet came back in with her and said that the reason she was breathing so hard was due to an upper respiratory infection.  He thought if we gave her some antibiotics and an intravenous shot of furosemide that she had a great chance of recovery.

Dr. said, "After all, Pudding is a tough dog.  She wants to ring in the New Year, too!"

My spirits rose a bit, but not very high.  Pudding was not doing well, and I knew the trip had stressed her even more.  But since Carl and the vet were hopeful, and I'd seen her come back from impossible things before, home we went.

On the trip home as I stroked her silky head, I told Carl I thought we'd made the wrong choice.  But my dear, optimistic husband said she would be fine, you just wait and see.  I usually always trust Carl when he says these things, he is my rock, but this time I wasn't buying it.

When we got home, we put her straight to bed.  She seemed a little more comfortable but as time went on I could hear her breathing from across the room.  By one o'clock in the afternoon, she needed to go outside so Carl carried her.  On her way back to her bed, she collapsed and could not get back up.  I knew we were in huge trouble now.  We lifted her back into her little bed and I called the vet's office again.  Her breathing was still very labored and I told them she seemed to be taking a turn for the worse.

I was told I could bring her in and they'd find a time for us when we got there.  I had called Joel and David to let them know and then texted Abby, Joel's fiancee' at work.  Joel and Abby came right away and we sat and watched Pudding as we tried to decide what was right.  Pudding wasn't struggling for breath as hard as she had been in the morning, but it was still a huge effort.  And now she couldn't lie down, she had to remain in a sitting position to breathe, holding her head up to the ceiling.  She kept dozing off in this position only to have to right herself, it was heart-breaking.  We decided it was time.

I bundled her up in her blanket one more time while Joel went to start the car.  All of us piled into the car and headed out for the fifteen mile drive.  We weren't even a mile from home when the first convulsion started.  Her body went limp, and I told Joel we may as well go home; I think she's gone.  But her heart started again, sadly, and I can say without a doubt, those were the longest fifteen miles of my life.

 I remembered that dogs don't like their owners to fall to pieces because they don't want to upset us even in their agony.  I whispered to her over and over, telling her she had been the best dog ever and I love you, you can go, I need you to be happy again, I'll never forget you, you're my bestest girl, we're going to go for one more walkies, please forgive me, I know you'll wait for me, we'll meet again one day,  it's ok, sweetheart, you don't have to stay, don't fight little one, I love you......She turned in my arms and looked up at me one last time and then, well, then, it was truly over just as we pulled into the parking lot.

Trying hard not to sob openly, I carried her into the clinic, past a customer with a happy young dog at the reception desk who said, "Aw, you've got a sick puppy there."

"No, she's not sick," I said,  "She's dead."

I don't know why I said that.  The technician scurried to put us in an exam room and said the vet would be right with us.  After a bit, a vet came in and looked at Pudding lying there on her blanket, and asked me what I wanted.  At least I think that's what she asked me, I'm not sure.  I hoped my little Pudding was truly gone, and I asked if she could listen to her heart.

She obliged me, ran the stethoscope around Pudding's chest and said, "I don't hear a heart beat."

And I said, "Good."  At least I think I said that, maybe I only thought it.  I was too busy crying to say much of anything.  I still am.  I just couldn't stand the thought of her trying to rally one more time.  She was at peace.

"I'm sorry for your loss.  You can stay in here as long as you like," the vet said and left the room.

I hugged Abby tight; we were both crying.  What a wonderful comfort she was to me in this.

Carl stepped up with Joel, and we hugged.  We wrapped her still warm body in her blanket for the ride home, this time cradled in Carl's lap.

There was a beautiful sunset, I noticed that through my bleary eyes on the ride home. Sunset was always our time for walkies at night, how Pudding loved to walk.  We'd go out in the Back Eight and she'd sniff and explore and then realize she was falling behind and come running to me.  These last two years I made sure not to get too far ahead of her so she didn't run so fast, the vet had said that one day she might be running to me and simply die from the exertion.  I didn't want that.

No, I didn't want that.

Be at peace, my sweet Pudding.

We will always love you.