The Very Definition of a Family Dog

 This is the way I want to remember her.

Young, vibrant, and able to chew through an entire backyard deck. There she is, a year old and comfy on the couch, bright, intelligent, and loving.

We found her from researching rescue sites. We were looking for a mix between Dachshund and Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. When we found her, she was listed as part of a litter in Chattanooga, Tennessee, over six hours away from us.

Nevertheless, we made the journey. We saw the litter she was from. Some were clearly more dachshund-like. She was a little bit bigger, with more spaniel characteristics.

They had named her Buttercup. We didn't much like that, so we let Benjamin name her. Why he decided on Cocoa Bear, I'm not sure. Nevertheless, that's what she became, and over time, I couldn't imagine her with any other name.

Over time, it became clear that there was no way she was any part Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. She was way too big for that.  She was a medium-sized dog approaching thirty pounds. It really didn't matter.  We loved her just the same, if not more. 

She was loving and kind, and sometimes she was a little bit shy (that fit her in perfectly with the rest of us). There was little aggressor in her.

She never wandered or ran off. Even when I accidentally left the gate open, she stayed in the yard, patiently waiting to greet us.  

She was a good eater, a frequent tail wagger, and a faithful companion.

This last year, she began to visibly decline. Her cognitive abilities diminished, and her movement and steadiness became more unsure.

She turned fifteen in May. Every day, I worried about her. I watched her carefully. There were several trips to the vet as she declined. Some medicines restored some mobility. Her bloodwork came back positive.  

As long as she was eating, and still following me around, and able to go outside, even if I occasionally had to carry her down and up the steps, as long as her quality of life was still there, I wanted to keep her going.

When we came back on August 29th from our week with my Grandaughter in the Catskills, Cocoa Bear was in bad shape. She had stopped eating two days before we came home and was having a great deal of trouble getting around.

We gave her some Prednisone, and that restored some movement. We added some sweet potatoes to her food, which re-engaged her in eating - for a while.

It became apparent that these were temporary measures, and soon, she was worse than before. Way worse. There was little movement. She couldn't really stand up...not for very long. She lay in one place most of the time, and took little interest in anything. She stopped eating altogether.

Tuesday morning, we took her to the vet. She was very far gone by that time. The vet agreed. There was little more that we could do.

So we made the very hard decision. We could not let her suffer. Her quality of life was gone.

I know we made the right decision, the best we could for our beautiful girl, our loving companion, the very definition of a "family dog."

Still...when Dr. Kimbrell gave Cocoa Bear the injection, she growled. She rarely growled.

It haunts me. Rational or not, it was like her saying, "No! I'm not ready!" 

And I can't get out of my mind.

But I'm trying. I'm trying to remember her as a puppy, a devoted family member, and a dog who would never leave my side. Even in her old age, it is etched in my mind how she helped our aging cat Skitty by nudging her into the stuffed toy container she wanted to get into; Cocoa Bear was so happy to help out. Her tail wagged with joy.

We started the year with five pets. We now have two.  

In the context of things, with all the tragedies and difficulties in families, communities, the nation, and the world, this is a small thing - I understand that. I pray for everybody to endure and conquer the hurts and pain the world hurls at us.

But it is a real thing. And it hurts.

I love you, Cocoa Bear. Our family cherishes you and all the love you gave us.