Salty is gone.

It turned out her kidneys were failing. We tried pretty heroic measures (sub-cutaneous fluids 2cc a day, medications), but she got worse. She hadn’t really eaten anything or kept anything down since about 5 days ago.

But she was still smiling. And, then, she started laying around, almost out of it. If you got the leash, she wanted to walk, almost as if she couldn’t stand still. On one of the walks, I thanked her and told her she was my very best friend.

She didn’t care if I was fat, or depressed, or smelly. It didn’t matter if my bills were paid or I yelled at her for barking. She was always there, loving me unconditionally, always ready to play or cuddle or eat a treat. She always listened to my worries and really, really miss her.

Jen has been wonderful through all of this. She knows Salty is very special to me — the puppy who picked me out, whose beautiful eyes and little pink nose ripped my heart away. The puppy that became the woman dog, the right friend for me.

I think I’m in a fog today. I haven’t cried much. It’s as if I’m afraid to let the floodgates open.

It’s late; Jen and I have been quiet, tired, and listless all day, crying every now and then. I came out into the living room and started to talk to Mom a little.

I shared that I had always wanted Salty to be the one to live the longest. Mom said, “We don’t always get what we want.”
Kathleen A. Gagne