I can’t believe I’m writing this. The very notion seems utterly impossible. But against all reason, somehow our amazing, maddening, crazy princess Ladygirl has left us.
Ladygirl was one in a million. The first pup in our litter with a name, she resembled Milord’s childhood dog, Lady, and thereafter resisted any efforts to change her name to something else. Whenever anyone met her and asked her name, the response was invariable, “Of course it is.” She was all princess.
LG was bossy, demanding, uncompromising, and so full of life and love. She was convinced the rest of us were here to pay court to her. As we used to say, “It’s Ladygirl’s world. We just live in it.” Boundaries and rules did not apply to her—unless she made them up. Her attitude toward silly things like fences, baby gates, and the like was a scornful, “Pffft. That’s for dogs.” At age 10 (!!!) she discovered she could jump the babygate that blocked off the dining/sewing room, and routinely would sit on the other side of it, smiling smugly at me. “This room is Ladygirl’s. Those other rooms are for the dogs.”
She kind of had delicate health (well, she was a princess, after all—you know how sensitive they can be!), but didn’t live like it. In 2013, when she was 12, she had massive, major surgery to re-route her digestive system (scarring from pancreatitis had crushed her gall bladder bile duct and was damaging her liver), and nearly died from complications. She spent nine days in the ICU… during which time the silly girl charmed the entire staff, who would put heart-shaped stickers on all her bandages. Ten days later? She jumped over a babygate.
Sadly, one of the complications of that initial surgery and associated issues was a propensity for her to develop aspiration pneumonia, and she’d—we’d—spent the better part of the last year or so fighting off one round after another. Endless courses of antibiotics, daily respiratory therapies, and (the last few weeks) complicated new feeding methods, became her daily routine. And through it all, she bore it like the princess she was—even treating the indelicate task of taking her temperature as though it were a great honor… for me.
The latest round began in June, and we figured she’d fight it off eventually, just like she always had. But she didn’t. She couldn’t. The years of damage to her lungs made it impossible for her to bounce back this time, and when she aspirated again last week, it just overwhelmed her. Wednesday morning she was running across the back yard, barking at the neighbor dogs and informing us archly what she wanted for breakfast. And Thursday night she was gone. That fast.
She’s hopped over one last gate, and I hope she’s smiling smugly down from Heaven at me saying, “That’s for dogs.”
Good-bye, baby girl. Never another like you.