The Acadaemia Nut: Goodbye to our little BB.

It's no secret that Schmoobs and I were obsessed with our little forever puppy. From the moment she barreled into our lives as a tiny little ball of fluff with a giant goofy personality thirteen years ago and every day we were so lucky to have had with BB since, our home (wherever that may have been at the time) was filled with laughs and routines and small passing joyful moments that always included her.

As she grew into her sunset years, the shadow of the inevitable grew longer and longer, no matter how hard I tried to stay in blissful denial. We noticed, especially in the last couple of years, that she was starting to slow down. Her playful barks were less ferocious and we heard them less frequently. Our walks would lean more on the side of slow, peaceful meanderings through our neighborhood. But, always, she would still show some sparks of her younger self, from short bursts of energy on the sidewalks outside or with an old toy that had survived many previous bouts of catchaway.

Shortly after the new year, we found out BB had inoperable cancer. She had been having trouble keeping food and water down so we brought her in for a check up. The doctor found a mass in her belly. Although it was slow growing, it was highly vascular, attached to several other organs, and was obstructing her stomach, making it difficult to hold in more than small amounts of food and water at a time. She wasn't feeling or acting sick otherwise, just regurgitating regularly.

Through some obsessive observation and situational analysis, I realized that a routine of spaced out smaller meals and separated water times seemed to work better for her and helped keep her from getting sick. This was great, but after some time, the smaller food quantities was causing her to lose weight, so I began cooking her meals that had as much high protein, high calorie, quality fat, and nutritious foods as I could research online and find. A normal meal for her became beef or lamb, sweet potatoes, zucchini, broccoli, carrots, oatmeal or rice and quinoa, pumpkin puree, peanut butter, sardines, blueberries, maybe some organ meats (she loved those gizzies), and sometimes some cottage cheese. I even went to so far as to make her "charpoocherie" boards that she absolutely loved. Okay, maybe I loved them and she just gladly gobbled it up.

I'm sure to outside observers, all of these homecooked meals were the actions of a certifiable nut job, but I actually enjoyed our little mealtime routines. She really started doing quite well and it was nice to feel like I was caring for her in some tangible way. After a few weeks, it even started to seem like her body had somehow adjusted to the tumor, and she started being able to eat larger and larger meals again, as long as we always controlled the amount of water she drank, and was maintaining a healthy weight. It was a new routine, and we were doing great with it.

A few weeks ago, however, we noticed that she had developed this weird permanent tilt in her head. It was the end of the week, I remember. Nothing major, but it was noticeable. At first, it was almost charming, the permanent head tilt, and Schmoobs even gave her the nickname "Eileen" ("I lean," get it?) for a laugh. We figured we would just watch her over the weekend. By Monday, the head tilt had gotten worse and she was starting to act more confused and disoriented. We brought her in to her vet, afraid that she had had a stroke, but was told it was likely canine vestibular syndrome—an inner ear imbalance that affects a lot of older dogs—and probably not related to her cancer, especially since she had been doing so well for some time by that point. She was prescribed a regimen of prednisone and we had hopes that it would clear up in a few days, as is normal with the syndrome, with a follow up appointment scheduled in a couple of weeks.

A week into the prednisone, her condition hadn't improved. Actually, she seemed to be getting worse. Her head tilting was fairly extreme at this point, she seemed more and more disoriented and confused, she was wobbly on her legs, and we began having to carry her in and out of the house to go to the bathroom, and up and down from our bed to make sure she didn't stumble over and hurt herself. All this time, she was still sweet BB. Still had a very healthy appetite. Still sassy and loving in her old lady way.

But then one day I looked down at her and noticed her left eye—the side where her head was tilted down—had become suddenly very cloudy.

I'll spare the details—more for myself than for anyone else because it still makes me sad to relive it—but we brought her back to the doctor and it was the news we had been dreading. Since her condition wasn't improving, and her eye was now affected, it was likely that her cancer had spread and was now up in her brain and specifically affecting the area behind her eye. There would be no caring and feeding our BB back to better health at this point. I tearfully asked our vet, "Can I ask a hard question? Is this the point where we start having to consider...?"

So, we brought her home, not knowing just how much time we had left. It would turn out, just a couple more days.

For Schmoobs and I, we had always been adamant that our one and only concern was making sure she was happy and comfortable, for as long as possible, but not to make her suffer unnecessarily for our sake. It's the hardest, but one of the most important responsibilities you take on as a pet parent. Even in her last days, even as she wobbled around the house, she still looked so happy to enjoy what would end up being the last ridiculous, special homecooked meal I made for her. She never looked like she was in pain.

In the middle of the night of what would be her last night with us, she woke up both Schmoobs and I to cuddle up next to each of us just for a little bit. She hadn't done this for a while, preferring to have her own space and sleep at the foot of the bed. But late in the night, she went up to Schmoobs to give him a snuggle. Later on, she did the same with me, nestling up against my side, which I hadn't felt her do in a long time.

The next day, last Friday, I gave her one last morning treat—a couple pieces of a Vienna sausage. Those were the treats I had started sneaking her medicine into, and she happily ate it. I had a conference presentation to give at work and I checked in on her snoozling away on our bed before I headed to the living room to help lead the Zoom session. It was literally right at the very end of the session, my last real work obligation that week, that I heard Schmoobs call my name. I hurriedly gave a collegial goodbye over Zoom and rushed back to them.

BB had collapsed on the floor next to our bed. Schmoobs and I just looked at each other and cried. I called the vet, because we understood it was time.

We gently laid her down in one of her beds, I drove, and Schmoobs had her in his lap the whole time. She was in her bed, her very first toy and her very favorite toy beside her, and both of us softly petting her and letting her know she was a good girl—the best girl—over and over, as she drifted off to sleep.

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Grief behaves in strange ways sometimes.

Don't get me wrong, I've cried plenty this past week. I imagine I'll continue to do so every now and again as the days and weeks go on. But my sadness wasn't like I had anticipated whenever I thought about this time coming.

After we said goodbye to our little BB and came back home, I thought I would be awash in sorrow. I expected a wall of unbearably heavy sadness. That I would be inconsolable and weeping uncontrollably. But we came home. I laid her two toys we brought with us and her collar on our entry table in front of our wedding pictures and sat down on the couch and cried with Schmoobs for just a few moments. Then I went to bed, lied down, and halfway listened to a final work conference session and responded to some messages from some coworkers.

It's really been more sudden, unexpected brief pockets of sadness. When I would be reminded of all the little ways I'd just gotten so used to her being there. The first few days, I'd look over to where her beds were in the living room, scattered with her most loved toys, and I'd think for a moment that she was curled up in one of them. I'd wake up from sleep and instinctively stretch my legs off to the side instead of straight because, even semi-conscious, I learned to make sure I didn't kick her in the middle of the night. I'd observe the warm, sunny weather outside and think for a second that it would be nice to take her on a walk after work. I'd turn on the lights outside and make sure the doors were locked and realize I didn't have to take her outside one more time before bed. I'd spill some rice on the floor while preparing dinner and realize that I actually have to clean it up instead of just calling her name.

But in between those little pulses of sadness and grief have been so many more happy memories and funny stories that Schmoobs and I would share with each other. I've probably laughed just as much as I've cried this past week, especially when I scroll through all of our pictures and videos, and I guess that's a testament to the kind of joy BB brought to our lives.

She was my travel partner on so many visits home. She was our snuggler and foot warmer. She was our comedy partner. She was the ever-willing participant in all of my silly, ridiculous outfit and photo shenanigans. She was a part of our entire family, and got Christmas presents from my parents every year. She was our little lady.

We'll always remember her snorts and snoozles, her smells, her obsession with bouncy squeaky balls, the hilarious games she would play with Rhythm Spider, her old man snore, the pitter patter of her nails on the wood floor and the jingle of her nametag, her shiny eyes, her black spot and warm belly, her excited spinning when she saw one of us pick up her leash for a walk, her glee at seeing or hearing us come home and running to grab a toy to greet us with at the door, her zoomies, and her chicken wings.

She was there for all of the big chapters and small moments of our lives for the past thirteen years.

We will always be grateful we had the chance to spend so much time at home with her last year and especially these last few months. We got to spoil her and take care of her the way she needed. Whatever instincts we have to be parents, she brought them out and made both of us better people and better partners. She made it to one more spring and got to enjoy some warm sunshine in her final days, and I'll always be happy for that.

BB is a good reminder of how fast life goes, because our thirteen years with her was so rich and full of wonderful, happy memories—three states, six different homes, a big cat brother that said goodbye and a little cat brother that said hello, graduate school, our wedding!, and so many jobs—but it really all seemed to pass by in a blink.

Whenever it's my turn, many many years from now, I hope that instead of a gate, I see a window with her little face on the other side looking excited to see me right before she runs back to grab a toy to greet me with as I open the door.

BB was and is our forever puppy, and she will always be one of my favorite parts of this life.