When Love Is the Medicine
I’ve been dealing with something pretty heavy lately. My buddy is coming up on 15 years old this January. He struggles with arthritis, and he’s had a few lumps removed over the years. A new one just appeared under his chin…it looks pretty bad.
I massage his arms at night. His elbows. His paws. I bathe him once or twice a week because we’ve been fighting this yeast/bacteria combo on his chest. We’re also battling yeast in his ears. I’ve invested in ramps and pull-’em-up harnesses. We’ve done hydrotherapy, stem cell therapy, PRP, red light therapy, Synovetin injections. I buy him costly CBD, arnica, pain salves. I’ve tried supplements, herbs, energy healing, anything that might offer relief.
I am the “take my money” dog owner. If someone tells me there’s even a slight chance something could help Gauge… I open my wallet. I open my heart.
And still — here’s the heavy part — I carry guilt. No matter what I do, I feel like it’s not enough. And sometimes I cry. I look into his innocent eyes, where the heart of a puppy still resides, and I cry.
Why can’t I fix him? Why can’t I stop the pain?
But lately, I’ve started to realize something deeper. Gauge isn’t here to be fixed. He’s here to be loved. He’s here to teach me presence, patience, and what it truly means to care for another being — even when you can’t change the outcome.
He’s fifteen. Fifteen beautiful, loyal, goofy, soulful years. And that’s not something I could have controlled or extended by sheer force of will. I’ve made the best choices I could, every single time, with love as my compass. I can’t fight time, or the world, or God on this one. What I can do is love him through it.
Every massage, every bath, every gentle word whispered in the dark — that’s healing too. Not the kind that erases pain, but the kind that honors it. The kind that says, you are safe, you are cherished, and you are not alone.
Maybe that’s what it really means to care for an old dog — not to fix them, but to walk beside them. To let them teach us how to love deeper, slow down, and be present for every sacred moment we’re given.
So tonight, I’ll light a candle. I’ll rub his tired paws. I’ll breathe with him. And I’ll remind myself that even as his body slows, his spirit still runs wild — and for now, that’s enough.
With wild grace,
Annika
