When Valdosta's dog pound advertised a mother dog slated for euthanasia the next day, since her litter had been adopted without her, Dad saw her picture. He wanted to adopt this "Min-Pin" (a miniature Doberman Pinscher) who resembled his boyhood dog Peggy, but Mom was reluctant to commit to another dog. Then, at the pound, the dog ran at Mom and jumped in her lap. Love at first sight!
That was ten years ago. Since then, Dad died, Mom moved near me, and then she got her diagnosis of dementia.
For six years, we had breakfast at the café where little Sassy could join us and take a share of Mom's potatoes. Then we'd all stroll in the cemetery. Whenever I left Mom at the front door to Assisted Living, I knew that, next, Sassy would prance beside Mom down the hall, exciting comments from the facility's clients and staff. Regarding the elevator's door with imperial patience, Sassy would be first to go in, first to get off. Mom would let go the leash for Sassy to run down the hall to their room, to turn, and wag her tail at the door. Both would settle in. Every hour for the remainder of the day, Mom would look at Sassy and say, "You haven't been out, have you? Let's go."
Whenever Mom was anxious, or annoyed, I could count on Sassy to distract her from the negative and bring Mom back to laughter. Sassy was always so happy to see me that just my walking through the door set her to capering and licking my face, making Mom laugh.
In March, Sassy suffered a confluence of conditions: inoperable bladder tumor interfering with urination, a syndrome that increased production of urine, and, by March 30, she also had an infected tooth. Mom and I walked the cemetery with Sassy, and Mom observed the dog's anxiety about wetting, her foaming mouth, her shying away from our hands where the mouth hurt: "It's time," she said.
Within a week, Mom had gotten lost walking in the neighborhood outside the facility. Without Sassy to tug Mom around the block, Mom walked aimlessly. Now she has 12 - hour -a- day "Visiting Angels" for company and safety.
Sometimes Mom forgets that Sassy's gone, and then has dark thoughts about what happened to her. Did "they" put her down? Was I responsible? I took her to play with my dog Mia, and we all drove back in my car. Mom opened the door to Mia and said, "We're home, Sassy!" A sad moment.
[Photos: Mom and Sassy at the cemetery; Sassy on the sofa (forbidden!); Mom and Sassy, cuddling;
French Café; amusing Mom; Sassy with me, Mom, and Laura, Visiting Angel, at the Vet's on her last morning.]
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More photos of Sassy with Mom at "Easter Vigil after Painful Holy Week." See links to other posts on my page Dementia Diary.
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