Dogs are so amazing at living in the moment. If you ever just watched a dog with its eyes closed, nose tilted upward, sniffing the air - that's pure zen. There is absolutely nothing else going on in that moment. That dog is enjoying that particular moment of life. 
I talked before about how hard it is to not get my hopes up on Nicki's good days. It's also hard to remember that we're not done yet. I need to remember to try to let her play while she's still here, rather than watch videos of her playing in better times. I have to remember to let the chores go for a bit, and just pet the pupper. You'd think that's a no-brainer, but I think I know what's going on.
I've been extraordinarily lucky to have had two heart dogs. Daisy, my Border Collie, was the girl of my childhood dreams. Sometimes I thought she could read my mind. I have very few good pictures of her. Cell phone cameras were pretty new then, and I didn't have mine with me much of the time. Nonetheless, she was beautiful, smart, a dream dog in every way. Then she aged, became ill, and we eventually lost her. My grief was so bad that my husband actually begged me to look for another dog. That's what led us to Nicki.
For Daisy, I got a plastic mattress cover and put it on our bed, where she always slept. Then I covered it with her special blanket. When the vet came to our home to help her for one last time, I placed her on her blanket on our bed, and bid her goodbye in the only home she ever knew, with all her people near at hand. Later on, I regretted not having some Reese's cups for her. On that day, she could have had chocolate.After that, there was nothing. Just mourning.
I have a similar plan for Nicki. This time, I have peanut butter cups. And her blog. I'll need to say goodbye to you for her. There will be something more to do. It will hurt {I'm crying as I write this} but there's an after to get to. Something beyond just the empty pain. It's tempting to think ahead to the something after, and skip right over the pain of loss. Of course, that's not how it works.
Her good days are far more muted now. When she first came to us, I had to take in my first deep breath upon waking very carefully. When she heard me breathe in, she'd leap up onto the bed, then lay across my face and head, wiggling on her back with excitement and joy at the prospect of a new day. Sometimes it was difficult to breathe because I was laughing so hard. Now, I usually have to wake her, and she naps a lot during the day. There are still energetic times, but I have to pace her. She wears herself out when she feels well, especially if I ask her to carry on as though everything's fine. It's not fine, but it is okay.
I need to leave those memories as memories and not drag them into the present to compare with the now. I need to let her be where and when and how she is. I need to be here now, with her.
