I haven’t written much about Blitz lately.
Not because she isn’t on my mind.
Because she’s on my mind all the time.
If you’ve followed me for a while, you know who she is. My faithful running partner. My shadow. My children’s protector. The dog who could outrun just about anything and somehow still have enough energy to come back and check on me. She was sleek, powerful, athletic, and every bit as stubborn as the people who loved her.
She wasn’t just a pit bull.
She was my pit bull.
These days, she’s almost sixteen years old.
That number alone feels like a miracle.
She’s mostly deaf now. Her eyesight has faded. Her back legs don’t work the way they used to, and every step looks harder than the one before it. Sometimes I have to carry her outside so she can pee or poop, and with my own back already being a complete disaster, every lift hurts both of us in different ways.
But then…
She sees one of us walk into the room, and her whole face changes.
She still gets excited.
She still tries to play with Kylo, even if it’s just for a minute before she has to lie back down. She still gets excited about dinner. She still wants to be where her family is.
So how am I supposed to know?
Every time she has an accident in the house, I wonder if she’s trying to tell me something.
Every time she cries out in pain, my stomach drops.
Every time I struggle to lift her, I ask myself the same impossible question.
Am I helping her…
…or am I keeping her here because I’m not ready?
People always say, “You’ll know when it’s time.”
Will I?
Because right now, I don’t.
I know she’s tired.
I know she’s old.
I know her body is failing her in ways her heart hasn’t accepted yet.
And I know that every extra day with her feels like a gift straight from God.
I find myself wishing for something impossible.
I wish she could just tell me.
If she looked at me and somehow said, “Mom… I’m ready,” I would hold her through every tear and let her go with every ounce of love I have.
If she said, “Not yet,” I’d carry her outside a thousand more times, even if my own back screamed in protest.
Instead, we’re left trying to interpret tail wags, good days, bad days, appetite, pain, accidents, naps, and tiny moments of joy.
We’re left trying to make the biggest decision we’ll ever make for someone who has spent nearly sixteen years making us feel safe.
That’s a weight I don’t know how to carry.
Blitz has never asked for much.
A run.
A tennis ball.
A warm place to sleep.
Her family nearby.
She has loved us without conditions, without judgment, without ever asking what she would get in return.
If love alone could keep a dog alive forever, she’d be immortal.
So for now, I pray.
I pray for wisdom.
I pray that God gives me the strength to recognize the difference between a dog who’s simply old and a dog who’s suffering.
I pray that when the day finally comes—and I know it will—I have enough courage to choose what is kind instead of what is easy for me.
Until then, I’ll keep scratching that gray face.
I’ll keep helping her stand.
I’ll keep carrying her outside.
I’ll keep telling her she’s the best girl in the whole world.
Because she is.
And no matter how much time we have left together, it will never feel like enough.
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