| Guest |  Tribute to Violet
You are a truly wonderful person to adopt a 13 year old dog! Just think how terrible and confusing the last days of her life would have been if you hadn't come along. Instead, she got to spend 5 more wonderful years with someone she loved and who loved her back - and I am certain, beyond any doubt, that a dog can sense when it is truly loved, and they are aware of and appreciate everything you do for them. It sickens me that her previous owners could have a dog for thirteen years, then when she starts to succumb to a few relatively mild age-related problems, they leave her at an animal shelter, like taking a sack of garbage to the dump! People like this don't deserve to have animals, but I hope they never have to know how terrified and abandoned Violet must have felt when they left her at that unfamiliar shelter.
I lost my 18 year old Shih Tzu, Muffet, last August 17. I got her from what I later discovered was called a Puppy Mill, when I went with a friend to have his dog bred. Muffet was so small for her age, living alone in a rusted wire cage with a cardboard top, and dirty, green water. Her rear end was soaked and packed with feces, and every inch of her was matted to the skin. (I'm glad I resisted the suggestion to name her Mattie.) The monster that operated this facility told me that she was just wet from playing in her water. I noticed a special light in her eye, and we just couldn't stop looking at each other, so I paid the $50, took her home, shaved her, gave her her first bath and fell asleep with her in my arms. The next day, after she tried to attack our neighbor's 2,000 lb. Angus bull (she always thought she was as big as everyone else), we visited my vet where I was devastated to find out that she wasn't wet from playing in the water, but had a urinary tract disorder that was incurable and only partially controlled by daily medication. It bacame a daily, sometimes twice daily, ritual for her to get a bath followed by ointment and cornstarch baby powder. Within hours, she was wet again. Fortunately, I soon discovered that I could buy a huge package of #1 diapers for newborns at the dollar store. After cutting a hole for her tail in just the right spot, I could powder her, put on the diaper, and she never once tried to tear it off. It was almost as if she knew why she had to wear it. Several times over the years, usually in the morning when I hadn't slept well, I let her out the back door where she barked an unmistakable signal repeatedly to let me know she needed to go out, but I accidentally forgot to take her diaper off. Before I could even shut the door, she would run back up the steps, throw back her head, and howl at me for being so absent minded. She had the strangest way of getting her point across. She couldn't have been clearer if she could talk.
Well, other than the incontinence issue, she had perfect health. She went with me everywhere, even to work, and though people were constantly trying to sneak her treats, she always ate nothing but dry food. and even on her eighteenth annual checkup, which always included having her teeth cleaned, my vet commented that if he hadn't spayed her himself just months after I got her, he would swear she couldn't be more than two years old. Even at eighteen, people who didn't know her called her a puppy.
About a week before she died, I saw her stumble and fall off the last step as she was going to the back yard. She got up quickly, then looked around as if to be sure that no one had seen. My vet had prepared me somewhat for the inevitable, and I decided that if she wasn't in pain and didn't stop eating, that she wasn't ready to go. Within days, she quit leaving her bed, but ate everything when I brought her her meals. Then I would take her to the kitchen and hold her while she drank, take off her diaper and let her use some newspapers by the back door. The weather was nice, so we sat outside for a couple of hours the next two days. She had a small fan by her bed and she would bark when she got too hot so I could turn it on for her. Then twice, she didn't bark to go to the bathroom, but crawled out of her bed a foot or so and messed her diaper. I took her to the bathroom and cleaned her up and told her it was OK, I wasn't mad. Then I'd put on some powder and a fresh diaper and take her back to the den and let her sleep in my lap. Her bed was next to my recliner in the den and I had slept there for about a week to keep an eye on her. She was still eating, although I had started letting her have chicken, her favorite food, which had only been an occasional treat before. About 2 am on the 17th, she messed her diaper again, so I took her to the bathroom and as I was cleaning her up, she went limp in my arms. I called her name but she didn't respond. I knew she was gone. I didn't wake anyone up, and I had the roughest night of my life. We buried her in the garden the next day, but I couldn't stay. I had to leave, but my family finished everything. I love them for that; they knew how much she meant to me.
There is a point to this story, and I don't want you to think I've forgotten this is a tribute to Violet. I have a lapful of small to medium dogs. I've always said that if they can't all fit in my lap, then I have too many. Some are rescues, a couple were adopted from the animal shelter, one was on "death row", one just showed up here, there are rescues from breeding facilities, two were actually born here after I opted not to have their pregnant mother spayed. Some are just puppies; several are in their teens. While Muffet was my first and so very special, I love the others,too. Each is so individual, yet so much alike in their devotion to me and my family. For months after Muffet died, I became severely depressed. Although I fed the dogs and took care of their basic needs, I withdrew from them and avoided spending time and enjoying their company. Then one day I realized what was happening, or rather what was not happening. I wasn't making the most of what ever time we had together, whether weeks or years. It's such a miracle that we are on the earth at the same time. Just a few years time could change everything. Or even a day, that maybe I hadn't been at the animal shelter, or hadn't answered the phone when retired breeders were being disposed of. What if I hadn't gone to that Puppy Mill eighteen years ago with my friend looking for a mate for his dog?
I get the feeling that Violet was your only dog, maybe I'm wrong. Either way, there are so many other dogs out there who have had their lives turned upside down. They're lost, they're confused, they're frightened. There will never be another Violet, but there is another dog that needs you just as much. Keep your eyes and ears open. When you find each other, you'll know.
Good Luck,
Bowen5020
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Violet is surely in a better place right now. It's really hard to bid goodbye to someone we love, but things happen for a reason. Cheer up! Life is beautiful. 
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