Ingmar is arrestingly beautiful. Our other dog is attractive, but it’s Ingmar people regularly stop us to ask about on our walks. She’s tall, and more slender than most boxers, with the typical muscular shoulders, alert stance and expressive face of the breed. What sets her apart, I think, is a beautiful brown brindle coat with stripes of glossy black. As she’s aged the black fur is what’s turning white, and her face is taking on a ghostly, ethereal look.
We used to joke that when she died we were going to have her stuffed because her coat was just too beautiful to waste. Those jokes haunt me now as we wait for her to die. A week ago the vet found a large tumor in her pelvis. It turns out to be both inoperable and of a type that won’t respond to chemo.
As recently as Thursday she seemed mostly fine, trotting on her walk, excited to meet people. On Friday she stopped eating, and by Saturday afternoon she didn’t want to move from the makeshift bed we’ve created in my office so we can sit with her through the day. Now she’s still upstairs in her usual bed, and I wonder if she will get up.
Update: Ingmar had a great day Sunday, and died Monday about 8:30 AM. Thanks for all the support and love from her friends.
