Ramblin’ Road: It was a sad end of the line for Cindy

I trust everyone had a good and socially distanced holiday. We were with our daughter and her two sons. It was a quiet day filled with building with Legos, playing Monopoly Junior and watching Christmas movies.

For King and me it was a rather bittersweet day. On Christmas Eve we had our traveling companion

We adopted Cindy Lou in March of 2017 as a senior dog. At that point King and I (both retired) had been traveling during the winter in our travel trailer and spending our summers as caretakers on a hobby farm in South Haven. We had been without a dog for about two years.

I had insisted that Sophie be euthanized. The decision was heartbreaking and was not easy to make, but it was necessary. I’m not certain if people will understand that statement.

And she had.

Saint Bernard would be our last dog.  But I kept looking at available dogs on the Al-Van Humane Society’s website. I would send King links when I found dogs I liked.  It was really no big deal. I still send him links to property, treadle sewing machines, looms, fancy travel trailers… I have quite a list of things I send him.

But one day after sending him several dog options, he said, “Call the humane society and see if that dog, Cindy, is available.”  King, by the way, is still under the impression one can simply go to the animal shelter, look at dogs, pick the one you want and go home. So rather than explain to him the necessary steps needed to adopt a dog, I simply started the application process for Cindy.

We made an appointment to meet her (when she was surrendered to the shelter she had tested positive for heartworms so she was in foster care at the time) and went to meet her and see if we were compatible. I think the fact that we are retired and would be with the dog 24-7 helped our case.

But the fact that Cindy immediately took to King was probably the clincher. There is a photo of us at the humane society with Cindy peeking out from between King’s legs. It was the first and only time she did it. But everyone was convinced Cindy had found her forever home.

For the past three years, Cindy (who they estimated was about 13 years old when we adopted her), was our constant companion. She went everywhere with us — errands to the store, trips to the beach, hikes with my sister, and, of course, traveling across country.

We had a seat cover in the backseat of the pickup and Cindy would scramble into the truck and stretch out in the backseat and sleep. Sometimes she’d look out the window and watch the scenery for a bit, but most of the time she was content to simply sleep in the backseat —waking when pit stops were necessary, or complaining when it was time to eat.

Cindy was also witness to a lot of our bickering:

“Well, I didn’t hear you.”

“Because you have the radio turned up so loud.”

“Well speak up.”

Cindy would sigh and I swear she would roll her eyes.

We knew when we adopted a 13-yea- old dog, that her life expectancy would be shorter rather than had we adopted a younger dog. But so often older dogs get overlooked and it’s a shame. They have so much to offer.

 “Probably three years, maybe five,” I remember saying to someone.

The first summer we had her I would take her out into the woods behind the property where we were caretakers and let her run off-leash. And run she did. There was such joyful abandon as she raced through the woods, stopping occasionally to sniff an interesting tree or nose under some composted leaves.

And there was the dancing game we played when it came time to catch her and bring her back to the house. She always came when she was called, but would stop just out of arms reach and run circles around us — three circles, dancing around us and then sitting obediently at our feet, waiting patiently for us to snap the leash to her collar.

It didn’t take long to get to know Cindy’s quirks.  She hated Lake Michigan. Even on calm days. I think it was just too much water. She also didn’t like it when King would go out and weed whack. When he was in the yard working (or later when maintenance men at campgrounds were weed whacking) she would tell me just how annoying that weed whacker was. She was pretty vocal about it.

And the chickens… oh how she loved to chase loose chickens. She would watch for a hapless bird to fly over the fence and would then give chase. She was never fast enough to catch one, but the chase (for her) was divine. Not so much for the chickens.

We named every hen in the flock Henny Penny. I would cheer for the hens, “Run Henny Penny!  Run!  Remember you can fly over the fence!”  The rooster and I had a hate/hate relationship and I secretly hoped one day he would be found outside the fence. But the jerk never strayed that far from his flock.

Cindy became a well-traveled dog. She hiked the mountains in the Cleveland National Forest, watched lizards skitter across the desert in Quartzsite, roamed the dry lakebed with us in the Anza Borrego desert, turned up her nose at the Salton Sea, stood with us as we marveled at rock formations in Utah and Joshua Tree National Park and probably smirked at me when I finally got there.

After a while you forget that your companion is actually quite a bit older than you. And the signs of aging are there, but they come on so slowly you adapt and really don’t notice.

This past summer I realized Cindy no longer scrambled into the truck. She would place her front feet on the running board and then pretend she was getting into the truck, but in reality she knew I would place my arm between her hind legs and hoist her backend into the truck. She started sleeping more.

When we went for walks she started slowing down (after leaving the farm, for safety reasons, I no longer allowed her to be off-leash). She still liked to trot ahead of me and stop and sniff whatever it is that dogs smell when roaming, but by the end of our walks, she would more than likely be walking at my side (like a well-trained dog is supposed to do, except I knew she was tired).

And then this fall she started having trouble getting in and out of the trailer. We had already built handicap steps for her, but she still moved the same way I did before I had knee replacement surgery. We also knew the jump down from the truck had to be bone-jarring, so we built her a ramp.

We arrived at our daughter’s home in Carlsbad, California in mid-November. Our daughter lives on the second floor of an apartment. Those first few weeks Cindy climbed those stairs like a trooper. But then that became a chore. So we took it slow and would encourage her as she made her way up and down.

But Cindy was having other issues. Her hind legs would often give out and she would fall down. One evening as I was walking her before heading back to the campground she slid into a small ditch and refused to get up. King had to help me get her out.

“Maybe some leg braces would help,” King said one day. So I ordered some from Amazon.  By now we were having the “should we take her to the vet” conversations as well.

There is something to be said for living in a rural area. In Michigan we have transported many pets (we always had large dogs) in the back of our pickup for that final veterinary visit. The doctor would climb into the bed of the truck with the dog and administer the “shot” and we would sit with our pets until there was no heartbeat, take them home and bury them.

Yes, tears were always shed.

It does not work that way in urban areas, and what we found was because of COVID many veterinarians would not allow people to be with their pet when the time came. Unacceptable.  I had many conversations with vets in Southern California. I was not overly impressed.

“My dog is having difficulty walking. Her breathing is labored. She falls down when relieving herself. She sits up during the night and it seems as though she’s trying to clear her lungs. No. I don’t want an examination. She is 16. She is suffering. I know what she needs.”

Jan. 6 was the soonest I could get her in to see a vet who would allow us to be with her when she died. Three weeks away.

King and I loved on her as much as we could. Every chance we had. She was dying and we knew it. And we were helpless to figure out what to do.

On Christmas Eve day we realized she was too tired and too weak to make it to Jan. 6^th.

“Both our dogs decided to get sick on weekends or holidays,” our daughter told us. “There is an emergency service here that can get her in.”

I didn’t even consult with King. I called them, gave them the information they needed, the three of us carried Cindy to our daughter’s SUV, wrapped her in a quilt and drove to the veterinarian’s office.

I can’t say enough good things about VCA California Veterinary Specialists (and I’m not one to ever endorse anything in my columns, but I will here today). King and I were escorted behind the building to a tent where we waited for them to bring Cindy. It was like a waiting room with chairs and a table. There may have even been flowers. I don’t remember.

When they brought Cindy to us, she was still wrapped in her blanket on the gurney and they transferred to the ground. I lay down next to her and told her how much I loved her. A little later the veterinarian came in. She told us her name. I don’t remember it. I told her I knew I hadn’t asked for an examination but I wondered if she had any idea what was wrong with Cindy besides old age.

She said it appeared she may have had a tumor that may have ruptured. She was pretty sure Cindy was probably bleeding internally. And yes, she assured us, we were absolutely making the right decision.

It really doesn’t make it easier, but our youngest son, in trying to comfort me later that day reminded me, “At least it was while she was being loved and not alone somewhere.”

We won’t be able to bury Cindy.  We don’t have property any longer. But Cindy’s remains will be mixed with those of other dogs and spread off Point Loma into the Pacific Ocean.

Cindy hated water.