My really old dog.

My really old dog is 14. She's a big dog, too, so she's outlived most of her peers by three years, easily. Lately she hasn't been herself, though. She spent the night at the vet clinic after two previously restless nights wandering the bedroom and vomiting. I called this morning and I can come and take her home after 2 p.m., so she's rallied somehow. I fear that the vet will pull me aside and have a long chat with me about her "comfort." Sadly, I probably will not disagree with him.

My heart has been breaking thinking about all the what-ifs and what it might feel like to actually have to tell her good-bye. Everyone she ever met loved her immediately. She's wonderful. And she's had a wonderful life, more incredible than most dogs will ever know. Adopting her was the first grown-up commitment I ever made. I never knew her as a puppy; she was 11 months old when we hooked up, a cripple from a nasty front leg break that left her knee joint over-sized and disfigured. That never bothered her much until about four years ago...meaning she'd run off after deer or elk no matter how much we commanded her not to do so. Two or three times she jumped out of a moving truck (moving slowly enough for her to dare such an act) just to chase a squirrel.

But I have to face the truth about her age and general health. And it hurts terribly. I'll know more in a few hours. The last day has been really hard with her away and all the bad thoughts in my head; I can't wait to see her again, even if it is only for a few more weeks. Or less.

UPDATE: I went to pick up my dog...she literally RAN to me, dragging the vet down the hall. It was a full recovery...a complete freakin' miracle considering the condition she was in when I dropped her off. She's amazing. And I know I'm lucky that she pulled through this and I'm going to spoil her rotten, pet, scratch, and hug her every chance I get.