He's not dead yet.  To the uninitiated, though, he looks like he's standing on the threshold.  Maybe a little over it.

My neighbor just came over with a couple nice Animal Control guys (I love this town. . .)  who had loaded him in their truck, thinking they needed to put him out of his misery after they found him, stumbling and panting, 1/4 mile away.  

What they don't get is, my dog doesn't DO misery.  He was out on a morning jaunt, having figured out (again) how to open the gate.  He was out having FUN, in his really really old, air hungry, semi-paralyzed way.

I got Boomer at the pound 14 years ago; I guessed he was about a year old then.  We went to the pound looking for a kitten and came home with this big galloot of a black lab.  He was irresistable - all waggly and exuding love in a calm sort of way.  Kitten, schmitten; I took him home.

 At the time I lived on 5 acres in the boonies, with a little scummy pond.  Boomer was in black lab heaven, having been sprung from a 4x8'wire cage.  He jumped out of the car and RAN, swimming into the pond after sticks I threw, rolling in the dirt.

Generally exulting in life, which was his greatest talent.

And still is, even now, halfway between here and. . . hereafter.   I'm a hospice nurse, so I know the signs: he sleeps more, he's losing weight, he's weaker every day.   Oh, and he's pretty much deaf.  And half-blind.  And he's HAPPY - it's the damndest thing. 

When he wakes up to my footsteps on the front porch, he wags his tail and gets up (no small feat, these days ), hoping for a walk.  We go out the gate and he grabs a stick, if he can see one, and proceeds with a sprightly wobble, still waggly, still exuding love.  That, actually, is his greatest talent. I take back the other one.

(Ever see the "who loves you best" test?  Put your spouse and your black lab in the trunk of your car; come back an hour later.  Which one is happy to see you?)   (Don't try this at home. . .)

He's an inspiration to me, this aged, frail, deaf, blind, ecstatic dog.  When I get snivelly about my little problems, I look to my dog, all inappropriately happy, for guidance.  So I'm counting on him to get me through my next hurdle: 

My daughter's going to college.

She'll "only" be 4 hours away.  This is actally pretty ideal, I suspect - close enough for either of us to visit, should we become too bereft.  And far enough that she'll do her own laundry.  I think.

There have been times, over the last few years, that I thought I would rejoice at this milestone - times I've uttered phrases I prefer not to admit, looking at the detritus that she routinely leaves about the house.  

She's a creative tornado - I'll come home to croissant-making parties, a silent movie in the works, a plot to Saran Wrap freshly-made cookies to the car of the group's current object of affection/torment.  She makes me laugh, regularly.  And she makes me crazy, likewise.

Like me, she LOVES to create, to do large, messy projects.  And then she runs off to the next thing.  The flour on the floor, costumes on the couch, plastic wrap packages are no longer visible to her.  I've spent a lot of time trying to balance my adoration for her with my resentment.  Trying to keep the volume of my profanity down so the neighbors don't hear, finding her gone and her messes all-to0-present.

In the last month, though, thinking of her actually being GONE, I don't envision a clean, less-chaotic house.  I envision a hole where the goofy teenage girl activity used to be.  A hole in my chest - a raw, bleeding hole where my heart used to be.

Perhaps that's is a little overdramatic.  I know I'll survive.  I know it'll leave time for me to take up new interests - maybe I'll try scrapbooking.  (NOT.)  Maybe I'll actually practice the banjo. 

And I know, as has always been the case, that the anticipatory grief is worse than the real deal.  Still, I have that big, hollow, raw feeling.  We'll see how it goes.

All I can say is, Boomer had better stick around to get me through this.  I'll be needing some lab love next week.  I'd like to pace my milestones.