Bagging it: The long, slow goodbye

This morning I woke up realizing that this blog and my 14-year-old Sheltie are in the same place: Dying gracefully, and not in any real hurry to go.

The story on our blog moving  you know already. The story of Drew … here you go:

Drew, a/k/a Drewbie a/k/a The Drewbinator, came into my life about a decade ago, after the death of my 15-year-old Sheltie, Andy.

I had figured Andy for the last of a long line of Shelties.  While I had shared my life with Shelties for many years and had run the local Sheltie rescue for a time, I had long since migrated towards the sporting breeds by the time Andy died. But then I met Drew.

He’d come back to my friend Tami, who bred him, after bouncing through a couple of homes for reasons no one could ever figure, since Drew was — and is — perfect in all ways. He’s friendly to all (not a given in this breed, which tends to distrust strangers), beautiful and well-mannered. I was visiting Tami when Drewbie danced over to me, put two perfect white paws on my knee and looked me right in the eyes.

“Who is this?” I said.

“Drew. I need to find a home for him,” said Tami.

“You just did,” I said.

***

Drew hasn’t set a paw wrong since. He has charmed every person who has ever met him, behaved beautifully in every situation and been a healthy, happy and well-loved member of the family here since the day he arrived. The worst health problem he has had until now is going deaf. That happened so gradually I can’t even tell you for sure when it happened. Drew is so bright and observant that although I guessed he was hard of hearing, I had no idea that he was completely deaf until he went to stay with my friend Susan Fox while I was on the national book tour. In his own home, Drewbie could “fake it.” In a new environment, however, his disability was more obvious. Not that it mattered to him and everyone who loves him … which is to say, everyone he meets.

About a month ago, Drew started getting picky about his eating, and his thirst increased. After a couple rounds of veterinary visits and diagnostic rule-outs, the only thing left was bad news: Kidney failure. Terminal.

The grim diagnosis came on the day when another 14-year-old Sheltie died, one I’d written about in relation to the idea of home hospice for pets to sustain a high quality life for those who can be treated but not cured. The day Savannah crossed the Rainbow Bridge, Drew took her place on the riverbank.

So far, so good. Drew gets IV fluids at home twice a day, and an appetite stimulant to get him to eat a little more. After a couple of days the fluids had a profound impact and now Drew is feeling very, very good, and although still very picky about what he eats, will happily eat enough chicken, pasta, tripe and peaches to prevent death from starvation. He doesn’t mind getting hydrated at all, especially since it’s a chance to be the absolute center of my attention for 15-20 minutes twice a day. The IV bags hang from my dining room chandelier, and I’m feeling optimistic enough about Drewbie to order a case of supplies.

It’s a sweet time for us both, really.

I don’t know how long this site will be here, and I don’t know how long Drew will be here, either. For now, that’s just fine with me.

In the meantime, the Lorem ipsum is up on my new personal site, and blogging of a more personal and generalized nature will start there soon.

Top image: Drew from a few years ago. Bottom image: Drew this week, with the IV bag hanging from the chandelier behind him.

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