Worst Day
Vincey was always a sneezy doggie, so we didn't think much of it during the spring of 2013 when she developed some other allergy-like symptoms like a runny nose and eye. The vet didn't seem too concerned, so why should we? We tried one allergy med after another all summer until finally her runny nose had some blood in it and she seemed to be having some issues breathing like she was stopped up. That spurred another vet visit, which led to a CAT scan and biopsy on September 16, 2013. A few days later we got the results we were dreading: a tumor blocking one entire nostril that had also spread to her brain.
Still happy for the timebeing. (September 21, 2013, her last visit to Emma in Fort Worth)
She was her normal, happy, playful self for awhile, despite the fact she couldn't breathe through her nose. But we still went for runs and she swam and played chase. She snored while sleeping or breathed through ther mouth, but over time this became more labored. I told her to let me know when the pain became too intolerable, and on October 14 she did just that.
This was taken three days before we put her down. She was still happy even at this point, partaking in one of her favorite activities ever, just lounging in the sun. (October 12, 2013)
Even with plastic bags chasing after her during tornadic winds, Vincey wouldn't actually crawl into the shower with Sarah as she did here. We theorize she was just looking for comfort from her pain.
We went for a run that morning like normal but for the first time not only could she not keep up, but she didn't even try. I tried to give her a bone when we got home and she had trouble eating it, like the tumor had now spread into her throat or mouth. She had also started peeing and pooping in the house a day or two prior, which was highly unusual for her. She paced around from room to room, which I later found out was a sign of pain, that she was trying to get comfortable.
The last straw that day was when I couldn't get her to wag her tail at all. She was the happiest dog I've ever been around. Her tail was ALWAYS wagging a million miles an hour. And when she wasn't, all you had to say was "Happy doggy?" and there the tail would go, even if she was half asleep, thump, thump, thump the tail would go against the floor (or couch). When the garage door opened that night signaling Sarah was home, I enthusiastically yelled to Vincey, "Mommy's home!" like I normally did. This usually led to Vincey running from back door to the kitchen, back and forth, back and forth, trying to figure out which door she'd come in, tail wagging, until Sarah came in for Vincey to kiss all over. This day, though, nothing. No tail wagging, barely an acknowledgement. Like I had asked her a month prior, Vincey was letting me know she had had enough.
This is our last picture, taken right before we drove to the vet. She obviously looks miserable, so we take comfort that we did the right thing to help relieve her pain, but our pain lingers. (October 15, 2013)
Next Page: Epilogue