Harlow Louise

It has been a long five days as I watch my good friend deteriorate before my eyes.  What began as a terrifying slide down the stairs in the middle of the night has become so much more.  It has become a body that no longer responds to the most basic of commands.  We are losing our girl. 
At about 1:30 am on Thursday, I awoke to the thump thump thump of something slidding down the stairs.  Ashlyn knew immediately that it was Harlow.  It took me a moment to process it all.  At the bottom of the stairs half sat Harlow, dazed and confused and pretty shaken up.  She did not appear hurt and did not wince or pull away from our physical exam.  She was slow to get up, but did so and was able to move around without issue.  Thursday progressed normally.
She didn't eat much on Friday and even less on Saturday.  On Sunday she only ate the hamburger - green bean- carrot concoction I created for her.  Monday, she ate less of that and today, Tuesday, she eats a select few treats and ice cubes.  She has not gone potty outside for a day.  (Or inside for that matter.) 
Her long legs betray her when she attempts to descend the stairs.  The back legs splay out like a baby deer on ice.  Harlow tries to maintain some dignity, a lady of almost nine, she would like her remaining days to be refined.  Ascending the stairs has become an ugly circus act.  I block open doors, coax her to plant one foot on the step, then another.  And like a puppet master, I lift the back legs carefully but quickly, in the hopes that she can take advantage of the forced momentum and get through the door.  Once inside she collapses on her rug like the strings have been cut free of her marionette frame. 
And she breathes with heavy rise and fall of her chest.  Sometimes she will pant with the heavy breathing but most of the time it is just the rapid, rhythmic inhale and exhale of a body that is wearing down.  When I cannot hear her, I am watching her, making sure that she has not left me yet.
We are going to have to make a decision about this girl, how long she is meant for us and we will always wonder if it was right.  When Barron was put down it was only to make the death that was already occurring faster, without pain.  I knew I had no options.  I knew that there was nothing I could have done differently that morning from the hundreds of other mornings that would have stopped his bloat.  But with Sophie the kitty and with Harlow, I will always wonder if I did enough early enough or should there have been more. 
Harlow died in her sleep on Wednesday morning.  I found her all stretched out on her rug.  The blanket scrunched up around her legs as it always was.  She had pressed her face against a table leg so I had one last look at that fantastic smile of hers. 
There have been many photos and comments about this dog.  This giant, simple dog.  She did not suffer fools.  She did not give her love freely like some labrador.  No, she bided her time and when she was ready for your love, it came with a head pressed into your midsection.  It was full of pressure and breath exhale.  Harlow was
Harlow was.  She isn't taking up eight to ten square feet on my floor.  She isn't muscling her way out the door when it is time to get mail or take out the trash or look at the fireworks from Clive.  She isn't quickening her pace for just  second when she sees a rabbit, and then not chasing it after all.  She isn't taking the tree branches out of the pile only to drag them ten feet away, drop them and get another.  She isn't leaving her tell tale smear of spit on all the places we don't think she goes, like the kitchen counter, stove top, sink.  She isn't making sure that we didn't throw away something she might like to have.  She isn't making her way out to the garden, plowing into Ashlyn as she pulls weeds, demanding that the task ends and the love begins.  She isn't slinking into our room right before bed, trying to not be seen or heard but still laying down with a house shaking flop.  She isn't.
She is lolloping in that field with her long time buddy.  I know he was waiting for her as patiently as he could, which for Barron, was not patient at all.  I know that when he saw her coming, no longer impeaded by the stiff joints and aches of her age, that he galloped with joy to his old, good friend.  I know that Harlow joined him in that field, racing and running, growling like a couple of bears.  I know that they ran to their limit, laid in the grass and panted the pant of exhausted, well loved dogs.
Harlow would have been nine on August 1st.  We always knew we would not have her for long, no time would have been long enough.  Almost nine years she was our friend.  Loyal and true.  Noble, in her mind. 
Good bye my dear sweet girl.  Thank you for just being this easy presence in my day.  I love you and your big head.  Your big sweet head.  It's ok, Harlow.  It's ok.