Some things must be written about...

The sun is setting, and all I can think about is that she'll never see another sunset. Or another lunchtime. Or another walk in St. Joris, or Ascension, or Boka Sami. Tomorrow, you see, the vet is coming at 10:00 am to put Rusty down.

Rusty, always beloved.

She was so alive, so full of joie de vivre... and then she wasn't. She lies on the living room floor, unable even to shake off the occasional fly that lands on her decaying body. Yes, decaying. I'll spare you the particulars — I can hardly bear them myself — but suffice it to say that we should have made this decision a week, at least, ago.

How could we, though? No, seriously. Look beyond the fact that Rusty is the reason we bought this house, the house we live in, the house that we've turned into our home. That she's been the sweetest, most gentle dog we've ever had the privilege of making a part of our family. That, for over a decade, she's been the calming force in our oh-so-not-calm pack — and that, no matter how hard I try, I can't imagine a single outing without her. How could we decide to end her life, even after the vet told us, in no uncertain terms, that at 14 years old her kidney failure wasn't a matter of treatment or medication but of time — measured in days and hours, not months or even weeks? How could we make the choice, a conscious choice, to end to a life so full of joy and love and sheer delight at the miracle of being alive?

Rusty & Cor at the hammock, 2010

We did, though. Too late, almost certainly. She responded well, at first, to treatment: a course of antibiotics and prednisone, three days of IV fluids to help take a load off her kidneys... but her downward spiral was too obvious to ignore. (Believe me, we tried.) We had to help her get up, and she seemed disoriented when walking around. She wasn't drinking enough water. All of which we, in the hope she might give us another month, another week even, might have neglected — until she stopped eating. Rusty. Refusing to take food. Any food. 

And then we knew.

Oh, Rusty. I'm so sorry we waited this long. You've given us so, so much over these 13 years we've had you with us — love, certainly, and laughter (you are such a silly, lovable dog!), and hope... We found you on the streets, never had the intention of making your stay with us permanent, and then, somehow, you not just wiggled your way into our hearts but also wrangled us into buying a house. 

Rusty & Panchita exploring their new yard, April 2010

You became best friends with Panchita, you educated the fosters and the puppies we brought into your space, and you never complained, never acted out, always remained the ever good-humored, ever playful, even keel of the pack.

How can we ever live without you, baby girl?