Decline

I made myself many solemn promises about my dog. The one I wasn't sure I'd be able to keep was about not forcing her to live too long. My parents had done that with their dogs and some had lived far past the point where they were enjoying their lives. I remember scolding my father about the condition of our first dachshund Moxie, who was fourteen, had a broken back and couldn't use her back legs, but who was still dragging herself around the house, the picture of misery. Not long after that, Dad finally found the resolve to do the right thing for his pet.

Would I Have To Do That?

After Molly's sixteenth birthday on August 16, 2011, I did start wondering aloud to Bruce, if we transported the dog back seven years, would our 2004 selves be dismayed by what they saw.
  

Molly in 2007 - Post-bath crazy mode

The photo record I've scoured to build this blog shows a nimble and active Molly who could clearly both see and hear right up to around 2009, when she turned fourteen. After that, there are many photos of the dog sleeping, none of her running around.

What's That, Sonny?

Molly seemed to go deaf quite suddenly. One day she was responding to our voices, the next day not. But then she'd seem to be able to hear us the day after that, so we persuaded ourselves that perhaps she had not lost her hearing after all. 

The apparent return of her hearing I think came from Molly's own adaptations to her new circumstances. After being startled once or twice when she didn't hear us come up behind her, she compensated, and maybe paid more attention to her sense of smell to know what was going on around her.

But before long there was no real denying that she couldn't hear us. 

Our joke was then, well, she never listened to us before, either.

I Can't See You!

Molly's capacity to compensate sometimes moved faster than our powers of observation. For example, before the following incident, it did not dawn on us that Molly was blind:

During the summer of 2011, we visited friends who live in the east end of the city. They love dogs - have had several themselves over the years - and Molly was always welcome on our visits to their home. 

We were chit chatting in the kitchen shortly after our arrival. Molly was doing what dogs do, roaming the first floor of the house, nose to ground, familiarizing herself with her environs and prowling for any bits of food left forgotten on the floor.  

My eye caught Molly just as she came into view at the kitchen door, which was across a small landing from the door to the basement - which was open.

I kept my eye on the dog as she happlily nosed her way across the landing, got to the top of the stairs and flipped into the void.

I hollered her name and moved as quickly as I could to the basement door. I wasn't sure I knew what to do when I got there, but the plans forming in my head had something to do with grabbing the dog before she'd fallen more than a step or two.

Gravity works faster than that. I got to the top of the stairs in just enough time to see her tumble all the way down and land on her side on the concrete floor at the bottom.

Completely horrified, I ran down the steep, slippery stairs. It was dark down there and I had no idea what I was going to find. A broken Molly. A dead Molly. But she was getting to her feet on her own by the time I got to the bottom. She gave her head a shake so I knew she hadn't broken her neck.

I put my hands on her gently, applying slight pressure testing for sore spots. She didn't wince or whine or pull away. I hauled her up in my arms and brought her up the stairs still gently pressing her ribs and limbs for sore spots as I climbed. She was fine. No sore spots. No contusions or abrasions. I put her on her feet on the landing and she happily resumed her reconnaissance where she had left it before she fell.

Not that we were ever going to give her another chance at it, but I bet Molly would have never fallen down those stairs like that again. She was still our little evil genius. As soon as she learned that peril awaited her if she didn't change her ways, she changed.

While Molly was clever enough to adapt to her new circumstances, we couldn't ignore their effect on her quality of life. It came to the point where she really was not interested in playing with the ball anymore. I think she could still smell where it was, but she couldn't see it or hear it bounce on the floor. She also stopped reacting to the vacuum cleaner, the phone, or a knock at the door.

But, somehow, even with her shrouded senses, she was instantly aware of when I was chopping food in the kitchen and would come running to monitor for falling food. 

That facility never left her.

But the end was nigh. You can read about that here.