I am sneaking in my one blog post for the month here- I am just not finding the time for this long format exposition any more.
The 27 videos (x2 in French) are finally near complete, and along with moving to London to be with my brother, we've had Christmas, vet trips, Kate's new jobs (yes, plural), vehicle adventures and ongoing business development all competing for our attention. And Dallas needs quite a high level of our attention every day as well. I'm not complaining, mind you- but we've had no time for months to indulge in friends and family the way we'd like. Or at all, really.
Dallas has unfortunately been trending downward ever since we got to London. To compensate, she's now on stronger drugs, but to compensate for the messy stool that causes, we now add rice to every bowl of her food. The drugs also make her less with it, and she sometimes seems unsure of where she is, or where/who we are. For this, we can do nothing but watch, and it's taking its toll on all of us here.
Watching Dallas decline has been torturous, but I think the more so because of her extreme buoyancy and relentless energy while she was young. She was indefatigable; an absolutely unstoppable force of energy, play and mayhem. She had a pace to her waking hours, a frenetic fuel powering a whipping, chomping face that moved so fast for the first 7 years, my parents and brother swear they never really knew what she looked like. She learned to fly beside roller-blades that took her everywhere, and later in front of a mountain bike that nipped at her heels and drove her ever faster through endless forest trails. Early photos and video reveal only a blonde blur attacking someone's Christmas package or a witless reveller's antlers, or a gaping maw being wrestled back off someone's chest in play.
And now she's so still- the kind of stillness poets lift to the surface and examine, in all its wrenching portent. We watch her lying there, set aside and forgotten like a once cherished toy. The cats walk past without betraying a jot of awareness or care. Dallas lays on a padded memory foam mattress, (bed sores tended daily), and is grateful each time she can sink back down into slumber and take the weight off her ever lighter hind legs.
The vet tells us there is hope, one more thing we might try, and that Dallas is not in pain - or at least she only has pain on rising, and after she's been out too long on one of her twice daily walks. The walks are sometimes only 5 or 10 minutes, and we go down a lane or around a few houses, stopping frequently so she can catch her breath. On the days she wants to go longer, we have twice had to carry her back, and instead of fighting us, she relaxes gratefully and watches the scenery pass by as she's floating by in a canoe.
We are the nursing staff, watching for her every sign or need. I am so close to her now, I could step into her body, know the weight and price of a lifting chest, feel familiar with the grogginess and dryness of the mouth- know the boredom, anticipate the day's highlights. We are the tuned ears on the other side of a baby monitor that shares her every breath with us while we sleep, or while we stare into our computer screens downstairs. In these late days, I feel more connected to her than ever, and I all too knowingly project future days when I catch the sound and pattern of her sleeping breath where there is none. It will feel as unnatural as my own missing breath.
In 6 months, she will be 15 years old, and I lay even odds on her to see it. Once we are back in our Green Acres, where she can while the day in the grass, soothed by the sun and shade and breeze, cheered by a stream of loving neighbours bringing her treats, telling her what a good girl she is, and petting her- she will be so happy- her eyes quiet, but still at peace.
