Not Ready to Say Good-bye. . . Again

I have been here before. The longer naps during the day. The slightly less-than-normal appetitie. (No diving head-first into the bowl!). The changing of food to increase interest in the least little bit of kibbles. The on the floor with bits of food in my palm, making "Yum" sounds and pretending to eat it myself. Once we get started, then the full cleaning of the plate eventually happens. And I sigh a big sigh of relief. It's gradual, this change. But once the pendulum swings, you prepare.   

It's too soon. Yes. He's a "senior" dog. How senior is anyone's guess. Maybe thirteen-fourteen? Maybe older. That is the pain of rescue. That is the joy of rescue. The whole second chance thing. The unknown becoming the known. He's here in these photos in two poses. One ear is always flipped up. One is always flipped down. Don't know why. It just always has.

Since I've been here before, I know the signs. It's not like Maggie was--he shows no signs of distress. Everything else is running as usual. It's just that it's all sort of slowed down. Dr. Thyme says: Hey when you get old, food doesn't taste as good--just let him eat at his own pace. And I do. I wait. I offer small changes to the menu designed to make the whole experience of eating a feast of some kind. Something special. Every time. We have our "breakfast of champions" moment on the floor now. (Wasn't I just here in May?) And dinner sometimes, too. His sister looks on with a knowing stare. She's been here before, too. She knows. She is very patient. Eventually, he eats all his breakfast, or dinner. Gets the You Are Such A Good Boy! pats and outside we go. He's so smart.

He won my heart over big time. . . years ago. Years. Such a ham. I'd walk the few dogs I could when I had the stomach to handle the place where they house strays. I didn't last long there. But long enough to know that humanity has some serious cleaning up to do with regard to its "disposable" society attitude toward canines. Don't get me started. 

He'd lean against his cage. He'd give me the big ole' sad eyes. I'd leash him up. Walk outside. Stand there looking at the building and feel the big knot in my stomach telling me how wrong this is. How very wrong. We'd hang outside for a bit. He'd lean against my leg. Then give a roll over on the belly for extra effect. This was his "socializing" time. He seemed quite social. A little scrappy. But they are all a little scrappy after being "taken in".

It'd nearly killed me. But I'd say, You'll get a home--I promise! And then leave, checking with the in-take staff to make sure they NOT do a thing to him. To promise, promise they'd keep him as long as they could. My house was full--I couldn't take another. Just couldn't. Then, one day, I came in. I was called over to the "One in Charge of All Things Lethal" and told: Your friend's time is up. . . Do you have a foster plan? Oh god. And I said, Yes, I do. And in the car we went. Home. And that's where he's been ever since. Home.

We'd never had a boy dog before. He broke the boy barrier. He is our Good Boy. What he is is a mix of the best. Some Pry mixed with maybe some Spaniel and possibly some Border Collie. Who knows!

He never leaves my side. The minute I move--he moves. Unless Dr. Thyme is home and then, he sort of settles in with that. The Ultimate Protector is home. Now he can take a break.

He and his sissy are best buds now. This didn't come easy after Maggie left. She sort of was the ring leader, if you will. Kept watch over the youngins'.

  

After saying good-bye to Maggie Mae, I began a search. Three was where the pack needed to be. Three. Now with the two, the dynamic had changed. The whole house had changed. Every week. Sometimes twice a week: I look for her. I look for a new sister for them both--to set right again: The Three Amigos. It's sort of become an obsession. I know the face I want to see. I know the patches of carmel on the top of the head I miss. I know the gaze, the size--I just know. This watching and reading the posts on Pyrs needing homes has become a regular pastime. Maybe to prove to myself there will never be another Maggie Mae. I even watch for puppies. Especially puppies. I'd love at least a full fifteen years this time around--to go into my Almost Seventy! years with me. (Life expectancy can vary for Pyrs--for people, too!) Would love to have a bigger part to play in their life, to take one very young--to show them a full, loving life right from the start.

I just haven't seen The One yet. Maybe never will. And now, I'm fearful that bringing another in would be unfair to him. So I just read these posts for now. Send out positive prayers for each and every one, then look at my kids and tell them: You DO know how much mommy loves you, don't you? You Do know how lucky you are, don't you?

I've had to grow old along with him. My childbearing years were spent on dogs. (And have no regrets whatsoever over doing so!) He was one of them. One of lots of them.

And I've moved beyond the need to "participate" in any group(s) affiliated with rescues and what have you. I don't have the same tolerance for the "political" goings on and. . . the egos. I applaud most of the groups out there for their efforts in finding homes for these kiddos. At Almost Fifty, your view of the world changes. Priorities do, too. My personal beliefs are well, more personal. No proving anything to anyone. I simply know that whatever the circumstance in our lives, we will never live without our best friends. I cannot imagine a world without them--without more than one of them. Ever.   

So we are here again.