Goodbye Studio Buddy, Zen Master and Friend.

It was a shock. Total and complete shock. Everything had been going just fine and then, we woke up Friday morning, but my sweet, silly Jilly did not. 

The day before was just a normal everyday day. We got up. She went out, ate her breakfast and begged for my toast (and got it, of course). We went for a lovely walk around the lake in the sunshine. We came home, she got her vitamin, her treats, and slept while I ran errands. She went out, got more treats, snoozed while I worked in the studio. Oh, she grumbled a little because I was late doing her 3:00 out and treat. But that’s normal for Jilly because she liked to keep me on schedule (hers not mine). She had dinner and settled on her bed while I went to yoga. It was warm in our room for her and she woke us up to go out, then settled on her bed downstairs where it was cooler. 

She died in her sleep sometime during the night. Peaceful. On her favorite bed with her chewy bone beside her. I just wish, I’d been there too. But I didn’t know. Maybe she wanted it that way. 

Jilly beat the odds. 

If you’ve read my blog before, you’ll know quite a bit about my life with Jilly. If not, here’s a little  bit about her and there’s more on the sidebar. 

She was a Guide Dog Career Changer. Meaning, she did not fit their mold. I’m not surprised at all because Jilly never fit anyone’s mold. She was stubborn and smart. She had a mind of her own and got what she wanted most of the time. She had training issues and it took quite a while for Jilly and I to get past her problems and find our way to working together with trust and love.  But we did. And she was also beautiful, sweet, loving, friendly, patient and fun-loving. 

Three years ago, vets gave Jilly 3 months to live. The diagnosis was cancer and the best treatment was major surgery and chemo. We opted not to put her through an ordeal of suffering for 3 extra months. Jilly proved us right by living happy and healthy for 3 more years.  

Jilly taught me to be.  

Jilly was patient and kind but she also demanded her needs be met. I need to learn that, too. 

Especially as a female in our society, too often needs go by the wayside to accommodate others. Jilly taught me that kindness and patience doesn’t mean forgetting your own needs.  

We walked everyday. As she stopped to sniff around, I also stopped and took the time to look around my world in that moment. See the otters diving. Watch the heron fly. Notice the day the bare limbs showed the smallest of buds. Jilly taught me that exercise can be relaxing and uplifting for body, mind and soul. 

Jilly was always there in good times and bad. She took it all in with quiet acceptance. Her presence kept me in the present whether I was at the wheel throwing, making dinner, or on the computer. No matter what kind of day I had, she was there to hear about it and sit by my side.  

Jilly was my friend. 

I know she wouldn’t want to see me so sad. I know just what she’d do about it, too. She’d amble over and lie down on my feet. If I needed a hug, she was always there day or night. If I got up, she’d follow.

I still can’t believe it. I still look up or over expecting to see her on her bed. I still feel her behind me as I walk up the stairs. But now, my wonderful dog and friend moves on without me. And I can’t follow.

A Very Good Dog and Very Bad News.

Jilly is my dear, sweet, yellow Labrador.  She is my walking buddy, my studio assistant and my home companion.  She has been in my life for almost all of hers because, well, she's Jilly.   

Jilly was born and bred to be a guide dog.  She's beautiful, sweet natured and calm.  But when push came to shove in training, Jilly pushed back.  She refused to come when called.  She had a habit of bolting when not on a leash.  And, when she played ball it wasn't an easy game of fetch that she wanted but a hardy game of keep away.  These habits don't work with seeing impaired partners, so guide dogs went looking for someone to adopt her. 

She became part of our family.  But, it was not a smooth, easy relationship at first.  Because, as I said, Jilly is Jilly.  Sweet and smart and stubborn.  What she didn't realize is that I am equally smart and stubborn but maybe not as sweet.  Because I wouldn't give up on her.  

We walked and worked and trained.  I wrote about it here and here.

After almost 10 years together, we know each others every move and mood.  So when Jilly started to lag on her usual happy morning walk, I knew immediately something was wrong.

I just didn't think it would be this bad...not for my very good dog.

After lab work, X-rays and an ultrasound, a 2-inch mass was found attached to her spleen.  In over 75% of the cases like this, many in Labs who are around 10 years old, it's cancer.  A very fast growing and invasive cancer which even after surgery causes death in 1-4 months.

I don't feel I have a right to write about death, somehow.  I don't know why.  Many people have experienced losses.  I've had my share.  And I usually suck it up.  But this time, I can't seem to do it.  Maybe I don't want to keep quiet, suffer silently and hide my pain.  

This sucks.  It's hard.  And I want to change it right now!  

But I can't.  I can't do anything to make it go away. Even surgery and chemo for her is just more pain and suffering.  And I can't do that to her either.  Maybe that makes me a coward. I don't know.  

Here's what I do know.

I love Jilly. I want her to be as happy and comfortable and cozy and loved as she can be for as long as she can be.  If that means more peanut butter cookies and poached eggs and pancakes, so be it.  If all she can do is walk around the block, ok.  If I have to drive her to the park where she can sit and smell, I'll do it.  Hugs, kisses, and belly rubs are hers anytime.  

If she wants to follow me into the garage while I throw, like she always has, then fine.  If not, like yesterday, I let her rest inside where it's warmer.  Right now, I'm upstairs writing and she's downstairs on her bed by her choice.  And I'm trying to get used to it, not having her right with me, but it's hard.  And I know it's only going to get harder.

And I could suck it up.  Keep it in.  Let myself separate from her to prepare for her death.  But that time is not yet.  Not today.

So, I have a new mantra;  She's here.  Now.  

So, I'm going to be here, with her, now in whatever way wags her tail the most.  Because she's a very good dog who doesn't deserve this very bad situation.