Mine. Her name was Bessie.
, saw an ad online and was immediately smitten:
She was all wrong for me, but I called anyway. I knew somehow that she was my dog. She was listed as 7, although my vet later said 5–7 so I’ve always given her the benefit of the doubt and included the whole range. She had been pulled from a high kill shelter. She had been found wandering and starving with a wound and heartworm. She would have been put down but the rescue agency pulled her. She was towards the end of her treatment. I was browsing online, but wasn’t really looking for a dog. Especially not an old sick dog.
But I kept calling to see if she was still there. I called a lot. I started carrying her printed photo out around with me to think about it. I kept showing it to my friends. I was annoying. I finally asked to meet her and the agency said they’d bring her to meet me so that they could also see where I lived. JUST in case, I happened to go out the evening before and purchase every single thing a dog owner might possibly need. She obviously never left. I also found out later that during all my anxious phone calls to make sure no one adopted her before I was ready to take her, I had nothing to worry about: I was the only person who ever called.
This is us on our very first day together:
And soon, after a while, every day I got smiles like this:
We moved, from Savannah to NYC. Home was where we were together. And I’m not going to idealize this. Pretty much everything that could go wrong did go terribly, terribly wrong! First she got terrible skin allergies that were incredibly expensive to treat and were ultimately cured by moving. Because she had recovered from heartworm, she was very susceptible to coughs. Within my first 8 weeks or so living in NYC I carried her to the emergency vet and fell down three internal stairs I was not aware of. She got an antibiotic and a cough suppressant. I scared a lot of veterinary nurses. The next day or so I got an orthopedic boot that I wore for the rest of the summer. I loved that dog so much.
She traveled a bit.
We really, really loved each other.
Eventually most of our together time was just long hours on the stoop of my apartment in Brooklyn, people watching. She was just so happy. All she wanted was to be together. She was grateful. I could not make her young again. But I could do that.
Finally her back legs just went, and had no function. I ordered a wheelchair for her, but before she was ever able to try it she did begin to feel pain. So I called my vet and made the appointment. She died at home with me 3 hours before we could go to it though. It was just her time.
I did my very best to make the entire part of her life that she spent with me good. I got her when she was 5–7 years old and had here with me 11 years. So she was 16–18 when she passed. We were very fortunate to have that much time. I wish I could have those other years that she was not mine and be sure that those were good too, but we don’t get to control things like that.
I have no idea what I believe about an afterlife. I’ll probably figure it out when I get there. But if there is one, I hope she is in it. I’d really like to see her again.
Source : Quora