"One More Month, They Say"

***Bernie acquired a gray muzzle at a young age, and it always irritated me when someone would say, "Look, an older dog!" when she was, like, five! It made me want to turn her loose on them. Bernie's reply, in her Bernie voice that only I could hear, was always, "The black dog is in prime physical condition." December, 2007.*** 

Today is January 28--Happy Birthday, Dad--one month after I took Bernie to the University of Minnesota's surgery department for an exam, one month since they told me she had "Maybe a month?" before her tumor became too large for her to eat and/or breath adequately. Thus, it was one month ago today that I started this blog, finishing my first post saying, "One more month, they say."

I thought she'd still be here today.

She's not, which I told a dog-walking neighbor passing by today. She was sad at the news of Bernie's passing but vowed to still stop and talk, as we often did as our dogs talked through Bernie's fence. I told her definitely, and I'd give her dog a treat. That's what I'm going to do with Bernie's treats that I still have, give them to her buddies as they walk by once the weather warms up. If it ever warms up.

I've dreamed about Bernie the past two nights. I don't recall what last night's dream was, but tonight's (I'm currently taking a break from sleeping tonight) was interesting. She was simply here when I got home, which was great, but she was in the state of the past six months--fine and functional and happy, but with the illness nonetheless. I had to administer her daily pill. I found that curious: Why would she magically--and I spent no time wondering how she got back--reappear, only to still be sick? You'd think such a miracle would have returned a 100 percent Bernie, huh? I wasn't complaining, she was a perfect dog till the end. I just found that odd. Of course, dreams end.

It's hard to believe that it was only one month ago that the final chapter began. After that vet appointment, I spent most every day and minute with her. That was lovely, the least I could do too. I still get sad, especially when some other facet of life is a bummer. It's been a tumultuous 2009 thus far. Winters are tough here, the world is seemingly in the crapper, and my best bud is gone. 

All in all though, I've done well. At times, I visit regret for taking her to that infamous vet appointment. Not only is this irrational, it's a waste of time to spend more than a second on that day and its results when I have 14 years of smiles to revisit. Those trips of happiness come often, even when I do the mundane--today I inadvertently rolled down my car window when I parked in the garage, and the sound reminded me of rolling up Bernie's back window when we arrived home from an outing. The towel that covers the back seat for her is still there, too. As are her nose and mouth markings on the window. Of course, her fur is everywhere--surprise! I will always have Bernie fur and will cherish the various pieces I trimmed from her while she laid peacefully. Bernie referred to her fur as "long and luxurious," and attributed much of people's friendliness toward her to her soft coat. 

Bernie was loved.