Up until the last day, Pooper was trying to go about her usual routine. She still made her way to and from the kitchen, jumped up on the launching pad toward her sheepskin on the bed, and greeted us at the door. In a matter of a few hours, though, she took a turn for the worse. She walked toward the kitchen and I giddily assumed that she was hungry. She stumbled toward me and, as I slowly lifted her up, I noticed a pool of clear urine filling a circle on the floor. I brought her to the bathroom and she immediately crawled under the tub. I peered in and saw her glowing, green eyes, and tried to coerce her to drink some tuna water. She took a few sips and shrunk back to her position against the wall. I managed to pull her out and set up her bed in the bathroom, petting her until Ernesto came home.
We gave her the usual 100cc subcutaneous fluids as she laid even more slumped over Ernesto’s knee. Maybe she would miraculously snap out of it? Could it be dehydration and we just needed to give her fluids twice per day? Could she be constipated and that’s why she was walking funny? We fed her again and she ravenously ate nearly the whole serving; a small chance of recovering? I had planned to meet my dad at 5:30 and the door alarm sounded. Earlier in the day, I had had a premonition that something was happening with Pooper, since the last time my dad was over, we took Pooper to the vet. All blotchy-faced and teary-eyed, I decided not to cancel and thought it would be good to get out for a few hours. When I returned, Pooper was in her bed, now twitching and struggling to move around. Not too much time had passed when Ernesto picked her up and tested the strength in her legs. It was as if she were paralyzed, unable to bear the weight of her own body. At that point, we knew it was inevitable that she wasn’t going to get better. We decided to bring her to the emergency vet to “let her go”. I will always remember the many years we had together, nearly half of my life and all of hers. She was almost 22!