Today is National Dog Day. I know this because the first thing I saw on Facebook this morning was a post from 2014 showing our three beloved dogs Aston, Millie and Percy.

Aston was the most beautiful red Golden Retriever there ever could be. He was Evans’ Aunt Jane’s puppy when she was diagnosed with extremely advanced metastatic cancer. Evans promised he would take care of Aston and from then on, Aston was Evans’ shadow. He liked the rest of us fine, but he was Evans’ dog. He loved his toys (which he did not share and the other dogs understood that), playing ball, and sitting next to Evans.

When Aston was a few years old, we moved to a house without close neighbors. We decided he needed a companion, so we adopted Millie. Millie was supposed to be a “spaniel-hound mix” and we thought she might be about forty pounds full grown. We were wrong. She was a Spaniel-Great Pyrenese (emphasis on the Great Pyrenese) mix and she weighed 115 pounds fully grown. She was our pretty princess, the unchallenged alpha dog, and the owner of all the bones. We never worried about intruders, of any kind, while Millie was around. She efficiently dispatched any animals silly enough to invade her fenced yard although she finally made peace with the deer that lived just beyond the fence.

In 2007, my mother decided she wanted a Boston Terrier. A lady advertised a one-year-old Boston in the paper and we met her at Shelby park to have a look at him. There has never been a worse-looking dog. He was scrawny, covered in mange, had a cleft lip (common in Bostons), and was just generally pitiful. I agreed to discuss buying him after we had our vet look at him. Four hundred dollars later our vet told us the only good things about Percy were his prostate and his nostrils. I called the lady, told her how much our vet bill was and she said to keep him. Mother did. She adored him. She fed him constantly – usually from the table. His mange cleared up and he grew in a pretty brindle coat. He went everywhere she went and slept under the covers in her bed.

As Mother grew older, she and Percy spent more time at our house. Perhaps something had happened in Percy’s first year, or maybe he was just a Boston Terrier with a Napolean complex, but he hates other dogs. He tolerated Millie because she dominated him from the first time they met – and she had about a hundred pounds on him. Aston was the most non-threatening dog that ever lived and even Percy couldn’t not like him, so the three of them became something of a pack.

In 2011, Mother died and Percy came to live at our house permanently. They were three completely different dogs with different personalities and not especially fond of each other, or so we thought.

In the Spring of 2016, Aston was diagnosed with an inoperable tumor on his mouth. The vet recommended palliative care. He lived just over a year and was perfectly happy as long as Evans was in his line of sight. Evans will miss Aston for the rest of his life.

Millie and Percy persevered and in the summer of 2018, they joined us in Crested Butte. They both loved it here, but Millie was in her element. It was cool all the time. There were fields of wildflowers everywhere. Percy loved to race along every trail, going first and fastest while Millie slowly and steadily checked out every bush, plant, and tree. Millie loved to wade in the mountain streams as long as the water didn’t go past her belly. Percy stayed closer to shore.

Evans always walked them late at night, usually after I had gone to bed. One night, as they were walking down the parking lot in front of our townhouse, both dogs took off running and barking like mad. It was all Evans could do to get them under control when he saw what they were after. A Cinnamon Bear was on top of the dumpster. The bear wisely ran away. Since both Millie and Percy were spoiling for a fight, Percy bit Millie. Millie bit him back, in the head, with all her teeth. I am pretty sure that is the last time Percy bit Millie.

In early 2019, we took Percy and Millie in for their regular check-ups. The vet called and asked lots of questions about Millie. Was she eating? Had she acted differently? Had she lost weight? We assured him Millie was her usual self. He explained that her blood work was “not consistent with life.” She continued to be our pretty princess until one day, she wasn’t. Just like that, she was very sick and then she was gone.

I thought Percy wouldn’t miss the other two. They had never been that close. He and Millie had battled for the alpha role their entire lives. They didn’t cuddle up on the same bed or seek each other out. They just lived together. Which goes to show how much I know.

Shortly after Millie died, Percy began to fail. He went deaf. Then he went blind. He stopped eating. We thought he was dying. The vet told us he was diabetic. Considering we called him our little pig-dog, no one was all that surprised. He missed his pack and without them, he grew old. We gave him insulin twice a day and life went on, just slower and lonelier.

We brought him out here last summer and he did fine. He could still outrun us on the trails. We kept him on a short leash because he thought he could beat up all the dogs that crossed his path and there are probably more dogs in Crested Butte than there are people. He traveled back and forth in the truck like a champ. We brought him again in January and he tackled the snow and ice like a sled dog. He even wore little red snow boots.

We thought this summer would be the same, but at almost fourteen, he is feeling and showing the years. He is now so deaf and blind that he doesn’t notice the other dogs. He hasn’t picked a single fight. Sometimes we carry him up and down the stairs. He is slower and his walks don’t go as far.

Earlier this summer he stopped eating. Our vet here said he had abscessed teeth. Before we agreed to surgery, we asked if he could get better or if we needed to make a hard decision. We went forward with the surgery and he came through like a champ. He remained a very picky eater and we thought maybe he was just spoiled. Again, this dog has been fed every treat known to man or dog his entire life. We thought maybe he was old and crotchety and would be fine if I just cooked him chicken and fed it to him warm. When even that didn’t work, we again called the vet. They said to bring him in.

They ran labs and checked his blood sugar. The labs were fine. His blood sugar was completely off the chart. He was so very sick. We didn’t know if he could live. We didn’t know what we should do. We discussed it calmly. At what point do you make the hard call? Then I started crying. We called our vet in Nashville. Evans talked because I couldn’t. Both vets, there and here, thought he could get better. We agreed to try, one more time.

We picked him up from the vet today, on National Dog Day, along with a doggy blood glucometer and an IV port still in his leg. They thought he would do better at home but didn’t want to have to run a new IV if he didn’t. The vet tech who explained the glucometer said several times how sick he was. I carried him to the car, not at all sure we had made the right choice.

When we have a dog, their job is to love us. Our job is to love and care for them. Part of that is to make the hard choices when it is time to let them go. I should have let Millie go a week earlier than we did. I promised myself I would not do that with Percy. When he is too sick to live, I would hold him and say goodbye. As we drove home I couldn’t decide if I was scared, mad, or sad. Maybe I was all three.

He has been lying by me while I have written this. A few minutes ago, he got up and pawed my leg to take him for a walk. This sick, old, battered, bandaged little creature just ran down a hill and up a hill, sniffing and peeing on everything he found worthy. Little neighbor children who he has ignored all summer were riding their bikes and he chased one of them. CHASED HER ON HER BIKE! I sobbed all the way up the parking lot.

He will tell me when it is time. It is not today. We will figure out how to regulate his insulin. I have the vet’s personal cell number and am to call him every time we check his blood to get the insulin right. I have two different kinds of diabetic dog food in the pantry and frozen chicken in the freezer. He’s the last man standing. He is more of a little old man than he is a pig dog, but, he is not done.

It is National Dog Day. In the Clements house, that dog is Percy and he has a lot left to do.