by Ann Marie Bahr

This poem was written about my dog Tia’s final days. She was 18 years and 4 months old.

She walks beside me, a gentle presence.
A quiet companion.
We don’t go as far now.
As she tires, she strides with determination. This is work, no longer joyful play.
The inquisitive mind that once took in a panorama of smells, sights and sounds now focuses narrowly on the task at hand.
She is still eager to set out on her walk, but now she is equally happy to settle into her soft bolster bed when we get back.

My house has two stories, and I navigate between them all day long.
She wants to be with me, wherever I am.
The stairs have become a struggle for her.
I began carrying her up the stairs about a year ago, but I let her go down under her own power while I went down backward in front of her . . .  just in case her old feet slipped.
But for months now I’ve carried her both up and down.

She can no longer eat dry dog food; her teeth are bad. For a while, I pour hot water over her special dry food until it turns to mush.
When that fails to entice, I buy the canned food.
And when she loses interest in that I cook for her twice a day. She has a double bowl for her food. One side gets a hamburger patty or ground turkey with some rice. The other side gets canned dog food containing some vegetables, blended until all the chunks are gone and it is creamy.
She faithfully picks at her food, and usually eats at least half of it, though I’m beginning to think she does this just to please me.  

Now she struggles up even the slightest incline.
She is losing weight. Her ribs and her backbone are right beneath the skin.
She has a benign tumor on one side that must be cleaned several times a day to avoid infection and to keep it from itching and her from biting it.
When she stops eating for several days in a row, I decide it’s time.
We spend a peaceful morning together, then make a last trip to the Vet.

She is a little apprehensive when I lift her up on the examination table, but relaxes when the Vet, whom she knows and likes, comes in.
He gives her the initial injection that appears to make her fall into a deep sleep.
I pet her constantly to make her feel safe and loved.
The second injection stops her heart, and in a few seconds the Vet says, “She is gone.”
I cover her head with kisses, telling her one last time how much I love her, and leave. 

I still feel her presence, walking beside me as I go to the mailbox or walk down the road where we always walked together.  “Where is Tia?” the neighbors ask. 
Her soft brown eyes watch me as I cook, or put up produce from the garden.
Her bolster bed is still beside the stove; I haven’t the heart to take it away because then her spot would be so empty.
I talk to her spirit as I work, thanking her for being my dog for all the years we spent together. 

When her ashes come, I put them in the middle of the table where I worked as she watched me from her bolster bed by the stove.
Every so often I pick up the urn containing her ashes and enfold it near my heart, telling her again how much she is loved.
I hope that, somewhere, her spirit hears me.