Off the Charts (But Not Goodbye)
I woke up at 4:30 a.m. to hot breath, heavy panting, and a face staring directly into mine.
This felt urgent.
So, I skipped my usual “five more minutes” negotiation with the universe and carefully made my way downstairs, gripping the railing so I wouldn’t tumble in the dark. Naturally, the boys were already ahead of me—crisscrossing on the steps, determined to make the descent as hazardous as possible.
Bella, as always, was last.
She takes her time now. Arthritis has slowed her down, and honestly… she’s the smart one.
“Outside! Let’s go outside!” I called, trying to keep everything moving before anyone decided they couldn’t wait for me to open the sliding glass door. One, two, three—they rushed out to potty.
Back inside, I moved into our normal routine—breakfast. Dry kibble followed up with just enough peanut butter to disguise their pills.
Ting. Bruce’s bowl.
Ting. Moses’s bowl.
Ting. Bella’s bowl.
I paused.
She turned her nose up at it.
Immediately, I knew something was wrong.
The only other time Bella refused food was when she had pyometra and needed emergency surgery. Since then, I’ve watched her closely—probably too closely. I’ve seen her go from vibrant and sassy to lethargic, struggling with stairs, needing to be carried outside, eating scrambled eggs from my hand.
And every now and then… I’d still get a tail wag.
She’s 13 years and 8 months old—a very geriatric Golden Retriever. And I am deeply aware that every moment with her is a gift.
But this felt different.
Was it her time?
I couldn’t help but wonder… maybe it was.
As those thoughts crept in, so did the memories—so many of them, tied to my family, to my kids, to seasons of life that Bella has faithfully walked beside us through.
I called the vet and managed to get Cerenia prescribed for nausea while we waited for her appointment. It helped a little—but she was still so tired, still unable to go outside on her own.
The drive to the vet was quiet. Heavy.
At one point I realized my eyes were leaking. I tried to hold it together—thankful at least that my sunglasses hid it from Jason.
When we arrived, I helped Bella out of the van. To my surprise, she walked into the office on her own. She even wagged her tail at the free-roaming cats, who, as usual, couldn’t have cared less.
We settled into the exam room and I shared everything.
The tech took her back.
Minutes later, the vet returned.
“I can’t find one thing wrong with this dog.”
What?
“No lumps. No bumps. Nothing obvious.”
But I knew my dog.
Something was wrong.
So, we ran a blood panel.
And then… we waited.
And waited.
And waited some more.
Time moves very differently in a cold exam room when your heart is breaking.
Bella lay quietly on the floor beside me, as she has since day one—faithful, steady, present.
Finally, the vet came back.
“Her liver numbers are off the charts.”
Oddly enough… that made sense.
The lethargy. The nausea. The loss of appetite. The disorientation.
We started medications right away—antibiotics, steroids, liver support.
And then came the moment I didn’t expect:
I got to take her home.
We are not out of the woods yet. Not even close.
But for now… I am grateful.
Grateful that I don’t have to say goodbye just yet.
Grateful for one more day.
Grateful for a little bit of hope.
I’ve always wrestled with 1 Thessalonians 5:18—to give thanks in all circumstances.
Some days that feels impossible.
But today…
Today I choose gratitude.
And I will hold this as a lesson in noticing the gift of right now…
…while I snuggle with my girl.
Sandy
All my words fall short
I got nothing new
How could I express
All my gratitude?
I could sing these songs
As I often do
But every song must end
And You never do
So I throw up my hands
And praise You again and again
'Cause all that I have is a hallelujah
Hallelujah
And I know it's not much
But I've nothing else fit for a King
Except for a heart singing hallelujah
Hallelujah
