I won't lie, saying "Good-bye" to Juno was rough

 I had sent her a one-sentenced text on the 12th and she generously gave me sixteen days before she started to gently poke me with a stick. Joan and I can go weeks and, sometimes months, without talking but rarely does time or space interrupt the flow of dialog. Only crisis can cause that. 

Joan can usually judge my mental health by my blogs which suddenly went radio-silent. 

She had watched as I'd raged, wept, and went to war as my dad suffered a painful demise over the course of three brutal months. She monitored my mania as I temporarily moved with my mother into an assisted living facility in an attempt to ease her sudden and confusing transition. All of it was documented therapeutically in my blogs. Sometimes funny. Sometimes not. 

But now, all Joan had was a one-sentenced text. And she read the world into it. And let me be.

Until yesterday.

Juno was a doofus of a dog. Happy. Clingy. Verbal in the way only a rottweiler can be. Our family adopted the cry of the rottie as our "Bat Signal" when separated in stores and crowds..."Whah-woo!" 

Plagued by chronic ear infections since puppyhood, Juno has...had...been deaf a good portion of her life. We were always yelling at her and she was always responding by wagging that nub of a tail. Her hips were bad. She had constant bladder leakage problems after being spayed. Her joints shivered constantly which we finally attributed to Lyme Disease. She was a hot, happy mess. 

Having geriatric dogs has its own set of challenges. You are constantly aware that you are up against a clock. Every day is a gift. 

The formula is pretty solid. As long as they're eating, drinking, wagging, and pooping...you're still in the
game. But, in Juno's case, the formula wasn't full-proof. We knew we were in trouble. She'd stopped eating. But an entire blog was once dedicated to this animal's depressed hunger strike when Syd moved out. We were still drinking. She demanded to always be with us. Those big doofy eyes were still shining...full of love and trust. 

Anyone not in the game would have easily made the call. But the flood of urine and vomit was of little consequence when she was still stretching out her head so we could stroke her neck. We were using a towel to hoist her up and help her outside. Brad bought her a rotisserie chicken and, for once, we resented the dachshund who happily gobbled it down when Juno ignored our frantic offerings. 

The bedroom became too difficult to navigate so the entire family moved into the living room in a morbid Mosiman sleeping party. 

She made it hard because that girl did not want to leave us. There was no trying to hide or escape. No tucking into a corner or a closet. Where we were was where she wanted to be. The final day, of course, was the worst because we knew what we had to do. Brad had laid with her most of the day after having been up with her all night. I took my turn with her, spooning her on the floor and trying vainly to get her rapid breathing to slow to match mine. I begged my dog to die. I described all the friends who were eagerly waiting to meet her. I told her what a good dog she was. Thanked her for always being so sweet. Apologized for ignoring her...being impatient with her...and not loving her enough. That's the beauty of Juno, though...she had enough love for all of us.

It was time to go for a ride.

I'd envisioned carrying her out on her soft dog bed, Cleopatra-style, but she was too heavy for me to manage so Brad carefully dragged the bed out to the van while I cracked lame jokes about Christmas trees. 

Brad assured the uncertain receptionist that the vet would be okay with servicing us out in our vehicle. 

The accommodating vet kindly and patiently explained how he would administer a sedative first and return in five minutes.

Juno was still chugging like a freight train as we stroked her.

Within 30 seconds of the sedative, she drew in a long, strong breath and let out a slow, shaky sigh of relief. The light went out and our girl was gone. 

I could picture Jesus...on a small, grassy slope. Not in robes. It's 2023, for pete's sake. Jeans. I bet He would rock socks with sandals. "Jesus wears robes," Joan inserted. I glanced at the clock. I'd been talking for over an hour. No, in this scenario, Jesus is wearing jeans. He's calling Juno. "Junie! Junie-B! C'mon, Big Dog!" And she is racing up that slope on strong legs, eager to reach her Master's side. She is leaping with no one having to caution her not to do "jumpies." And she is talking away to Him. Telling Him all about us, I imagine. All the good things. Because Juno was only about the good things. Whah-woo.

Good dog, Junie-B.

Thanks, Joan.