The Long Goodbye

Bear’s journey with Canine Cognitive Dysfunction, what many vets call “Doggy Dementia,” has been a slow, steady regression. He eats, drinks, goes potty, follows simple commands, and knows his way around the house. A creature of habit, Bear clings to his schedule with practiced predictability. He recognizes family. His quality of life is good.

It’s not “time” yet.

Still, I notice the gradual shifts. The confusion in his eyes when something’s unfamiliar. That glassy stare. The needy whimpers. Even the occasional unexplained growl. Bear doesn’t use words to tell me what he’s feeling, but I know.

Lately, he’s started sundowning. His circadian rhythm is off, and he’s up before the rest of us, ready to start the day at 3:00 in the morning. He climbs off the bed, scratches the door, shakes his collar, and snorts, signaling breakfast.

Slowly, I slide out of bed, careful not to disturb Ryan. I knock my phone, Stanley, and glasses off the nightstand in the process and wince, holding my breath. Ryan stirs but doesn’t wake.

I tiptoe to Bear, scoop him up, and whisper, “Nope. Not time. Snuggle Momma.”

He doesn’t fuss while in air jail, and I fold us both back under the covers with a sigh, bracing for the loop that will last until 6:15. I tell myself to be patient and wonder how people face “the long goodbye” when it’s someone human. Maybe I’m lucky. Bear is my dog, not my mother or my favorite aunt.

Bear settles for a moment, then starts to sniff for an exit, poking his head toward the edge of the bed. I pat his side.

“Momma’s here, Bubba. It’s alright.”

The waves of blankets bounce as he climbs my chest. For such a little guy, there’s weight in every step. He noses under my arm and rests his head on the pillow, his breath warm, stinky, and far too close. Automatically, I start rubbing his ears. I read somewhere that doing this releases calming chemicals in the brain, and judging by his expression, Bear approves.

There’s a soft kind of reciprocity. He grunts and shifts closer. He’s playful now, belly up like a puppy, gently pawing at my face if I dare to stop for even a second.

Warm tears sting my eyes. My nose clogs. I already know what today holds; the responsibilities, the tasks, the quiet fatigue. But I need to stay here a little longer. Most dogs don’t make it to ten, let alone fourteen.

This goes on for two hours, and I remind myself I can always catch up on sleep. That one day, the waters of my bedspread won’t rock with restless canine energy. Soon, the Rainbow Bridge will separate us, and I won’t hear the tap dance of Bear’s paws on the hardwood or see his little nub-tail swish like a merry metronome.

So, I hold him tighter.

“How are you going to keep this up?” Ryan asks later, glancing over his mug.

I sniffle as the Nespresso machine hums in front of me. It’s a double, and there’s an energy drink in the fridge waiting for this afternoon.

“I’ll love him,” I say, nodding. “That’s all I can do. Let him know he’s safe and that he’s not alone.”

Ryan draws me in and we both glance at Bear, perched on the couch in his nest of throw pillows, content. He’ll sleep the day away once I’ve left for work.

Bear looks at me and it’s like he’s smiling. I smile back, grateful, because even though I am so, so tired, my heart is so, so full.