Today, we said goodbye to our 17-year-old dog. If death comes in threes, then this should be it for awhile: Dad, my cat Michigan and now Chloe.
Dad met Chloe once, many years ago. He said she reminded him of an old family dog named Bruce. Now that I know Dad’s grandmother had a farm, I guess Dad and Bruce enjoyed plenty of romping around the grounds.
When Dad’s dementia began to surface, he would talk longingly of getting a dog just like Bruce, who had been a Labrador Retriever. He talked about how animals can provide one so much comfort and companionship.
Little did he know how much of both he would need in the coming years, as the dementia turned his world upside down.
He also suffered from hallucinations. I remember on one visit, Dad pointed out the window and said, “Look at that black dog out there. It looks mean.”
There was no dog to be found, but I told Dad that it seemed like a nice dog.
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