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Ashley
1992 - 2000

She looks at me with her petite fawn and white face, so refined, so piercing, so trusting. Trusting me to make the decision for her.

The burden of that decision more than weighs me down. It permeates every strand of hair, every vein of blood, and ejects in every tear that rolls down my face.

Ashley has fought like hell for all her life, and even more so the past 2.5 years. She raced until she was five. Not many make it that long. She was a stalwart performer, giving it her all. She then found love and a home with a single guy, who treated her like the queen she was.

Within the first few months of new life, she started to exhibit symptoms of neurological problems. Her guy took her to the vet. Tests were run, vet trips were numerous. It was determined that she had spinal meningitis. A death sentence for dogs. I awaited the phone call that would tell me she had moved on. But that call never came. I'd see her every few months or so, and though not well, she was still with us. Still moving one foot in front of the other, still looking at you with all the longing a greyhound has in her soul, still living each day. I was amazed. Amazed at how strong this dog was. How determined to hang on.

And her adopter. Anything he could have done for her he did. He went into the vet almost weekly with any little thing he saw that wasn't right. He was doing his part to make sure she stayed with us. She was his queen.

Then he lost his job, and found one in another city. I got to baby-sit Ashley until he found a place in his new city. The week he brought her to me, she took a turn for the worse. She was wobbly, had high temperatures, was confused, and disoriented.

I, in my inimitable control fashion, jumped right in. I would make her better. I would save her. I reread all the vet records, got a vet friend to translate them for me, and set up an appointment with a neurologist. Though Ashley's adopter had spent thousands of dollars, and many hours taking her to the vet, from what I read it appeared that it had never really been determined exactly what was wrong. I felt she was being treated, but only to manage, not to cure. Well, I would be the savior. I would cure her. I would find out what was wrong.

How conceited the thought. We all have our own timetables for this lifetime. I could not control Ashley's.

She valiantly let me run some more tests and visit some more doctors. She would lope down the driveway and meet my car every time it came home. She would follow me from room to room, lying down next to the computer. She would eat all the special concoctions I'd make for her, vomit it up and then eat it again. She was such a fighter. Even as the muscle wasted away from the bone. Even as she struggled with getting up & down. She honored me with her last three months.

There is no doubt that today is the day. She can fight no more for this lifetime. One week shy of when her guy was to bring her to her new home, Ashley left us to go to her forever home. Forever free.

 

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