The old yellow dog

My sweeet Libby just turned 11 years old. 

I began noticing that she was getting older about a year and a half ago. Her movements became slower and her naps became longer. She used to be quick on her feet, but now she lumbers along, slowly, as if she's stiff and sore.

I've had her since she was a pup. She caught my eye right away, a quiet blond girl in a litter of yellow and black puff balls. I can still remember how she snuggled into my chest on the car ride home. 

The kids were smitten and so was I.

Little Libby

Libby is a golden doodle. Her mother was a golden retriever and her pop was a standard poodle. Though some might dismiss the breed as being a silly designer blend -- a fad -- I would recommend a golden doodle to anyone. All the smarts of a poodle, combined with the loyalty and calm demeanor of a golden retriever wrapped in a low-shed coat. 

What's not to love? 

Libby was special from the start. She was smart, but also she wasn't. She knew how to shake before she could reliably pee outside. She eventually learned to roll over, play dead and sit up on her haunches. She also has ditzy moments. She loves to play fetch, but hates water. She is playful, protective and loyal. 

She's my girl.

When she was young, Libby made friends wherever she went. Strangers would often strike up conversations, first asking about her then-unique breed. Back in 2009, golden doodles were just growing in popularity. She was the only doodle in our neighborhood and local park. She stood out. She was kind of a big deal. 

Our next door neighbor fell head over heels for her. Mr. Smith was an older, retired man who loved dogs, but his wife wouldn't permit one as a pet. When he noticed me and my husband coming home on our lunch breaks to let her out, he volunteered to take her out mid-day so she could stretch her legs and empty her bladder.  

Libby bonded with Mr. Smith quickly. She loved taking long walks with him and finding tennis balls in the park. Together, they'd rack up 5-7 miles a day while I worked all afternoon in a windowless, beige cubicle downtown. He took her to the dog park, fed her way too many treats and let her run off-leash, much to the dismay of Mr. Wells, the neighborhood grump. 

Despite her attachment to Mr. Smith, Libby quickly became "my dog." I took her everywhere. She'd ride along in the van as I shuttled the kids around town, sticking her head out the window, inhaling deeply. She is the best companion. 

The best.

I rarely need to use a leash, unless another dog is nearby. All bark and no bite, She'll bark fiercely at other dogs and charge toward them, stopping short of leaving the yard. In the few times she's come face to face with another pooch, she backs down quickly. 

She's not an alpha, that's for sure.

For all her crazy quirks, she's dear to my heart and as I write this, watching her sleep and noting her gray coat, I feel a pang of sadness. I know we have fewer days ahead than we have shared together. I know she's getting old. Slowing down. And it breaks my heart.

This past year (2020) has been so awful and hard. The pandemic has caused so much stress, uncertainty and loss. It's forced me to stay home more and relocate my office to a corner in my bedroom, which has strained some of my friendships and human connections. 

But it's also kept me home to spend more time with Libby. To watch her more closely as she snoozes on her bed near my chair. 

Libby's birthday is January 1st and this year, more than ever, I'm painfully aware of her old age. I don't know how much more time we have together, but I'm determined to make the most of every minute. 

I took her outside today to play in the snow. She surprised me by her sudden burst of energy. She bucked, bounced and rolled in the snow, just like she did when she was little. 

She barely stood still to let me take this picture. I'm not counting her out yet. I'm just savoring every minute of our time together. However long it is.

My Libby. My heart.