My lovely golden retriever, Libby, passed away on Tuesday March 30. She was 12 years old. Though her health was in rapid decline this year, the actual cause of her death was a tumble down a flight of stairs in our house. She suffered a spinal cord injury and there was no hope of her recovery. Watching her helplessly as she went into convulsions from shock, and then struggle to get up, was one of the most painful things I have ever experienced. More so when our eyes met, and I knew that she knew she was seriously injured.
She would have been 13 on June 24 of this year, but a rapid drop off in her health as we entered this New Year convinced me she was not going to make it that far. I don’t know why her health deteriorated so fast. It became obvious when family members started noticing she was not eating. By January or February of this year I noticed she could not even make the 15 minute walk around the block that we used to take in the morning and evening. She got slower and slower, and by the last few weeks could only go down our street about 40 yards to do her business.
My doggie used to greet me from the porch when I came home from work; getting up spritely to wag her tail at my approach up the drive way. But that changed and she no longer even acknowledged my presence as I came up the porch steps. I suspect she was in physical discomfort but it was never apparent to me if it was more than sore joints. I could tell her hips were bothering her by the way she walked, but there was always an uneasy feeling within me that she had, as of late, more problems that were unseen. Libby never complained.
I will miss her, and I now feel bad that I was always complaining about the fact she shed all over the house, and smelled like a walking barn yard. I have pictures of her and a short video to keep in remembrance of her. But my fondest memories will be of the times we used to go to the park and run around like kids together, and how much she loved the ocean on those very rare times we included her in a trip to the beach. I wish we had done more of that together.
Our daughter Nichole brought home a little surprise last year. A Yorkie named Zoi.
Libby tolerated the interloper well enough but kept her dignified distance from the little dust mop. Zoi would nip at Libby now and then to get Libby to play, but nothing doing, when the old girl was good and comfortable she wasn’t going to move for anybody. I would discover this fact every time I would get up in the middle of the night to make a visit to the bathroom, only to stumble and trip over her inert mass sprawled at the foot of the bed. I would just about break a leg, or pop a hernia, gyrating through evasive maneuvers and recovery. The dog wouldn’t even lift her head to see if I made out all right. In an earlier day she would have used that bit of slap stick to go to the door in anticipation of going out to romp around.
Libby was one of the best friends I ever had, and there won’t be another one like her again.
She would have been 13 on June 24 of this year, but a rapid drop off in her health as we entered this New Year convinced me she was not going to make it that far. I don’t know why her health deteriorated so fast. It became obvious when family members started noticing she was not eating. By January or February of this year I noticed she could not even make the 15 minute walk around the block that we used to take in the morning and evening. She got slower and slower, and by the last few weeks could only go down our street about 40 yards to do her business.
My doggie used to greet me from the porch when I came home from work; getting up spritely to wag her tail at my approach up the drive way. But that changed and she no longer even acknowledged my presence as I came up the porch steps. I suspect she was in physical discomfort but it was never apparent to me if it was more than sore joints. I could tell her hips were bothering her by the way she walked, but there was always an uneasy feeling within me that she had, as of late, more problems that were unseen. Libby never complained.
I will miss her, and I now feel bad that I was always complaining about the fact she shed all over the house, and smelled like a walking barn yard. I have pictures of her and a short video to keep in remembrance of her. But my fondest memories will be of the times we used to go to the park and run around like kids together, and how much she loved the ocean on those very rare times we included her in a trip to the beach. I wish we had done more of that together.
Our daughter Nichole brought home a little surprise last year. A Yorkie named Zoi.
Libby tolerated the interloper well enough but kept her dignified distance from the little dust mop. Zoi would nip at Libby now and then to get Libby to play, but nothing doing, when the old girl was good and comfortable she wasn’t going to move for anybody. I would discover this fact every time I would get up in the middle of the night to make a visit to the bathroom, only to stumble and trip over her inert mass sprawled at the foot of the bed. I would just about break a leg, or pop a hernia, gyrating through evasive maneuvers and recovery. The dog wouldn’t even lift her head to see if I made out all right. In an earlier day she would have used that bit of slap stick to go to the door in anticipation of going out to romp around.
Libby was one of the best friends I ever had, and there won’t be another one like her again.
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