Bernie Opinion aricle

K, last one for now – this one's about Bernie, my blind and diabetic dog :)

My dog has issues. A lot of them. Really – Old Yeller has nothing on Bernie.
She was born a characteristically cute puppy – a wet, jet-black nose, big brown eyes and (most lovably) a curled, wagging tail. She was perfect.
Bernie’s tail was like her own personality thermometer: if it was up, she was happy; if it was down, she was upset or scared.
When we took her to the dog park, Bernie was in her element. She’d get every dog in the park to chase her, and she’d outrun them all.
In the car, she loved sticking her head out the window. Her hair would sleek back around her face, her floppy ears flapping in the wind, and she’d enter doggy heaven.
But things took a turn for the worse when Bernie turned three. She was eating more and more food, but lost about nine pounds – a third of her weight.
We eventually discovered she suffered from Pancreatic Enzymatic Insufficiency, a disease that basically prevented her from digesting food. The more she scarfed, the more she starved.
After the diagnosis, we were told of its lasting effects: she could never have a dog treat or bone again (the rawhide hurt her stomach), and we had to soak her kibble with powdered enzymes every day before feeding her, so she could effectively digest it.
While it took her a while to understand that she couldn’t have Pupperoni or Beggin’ Strips anymore, she was OK. Her health was impacted, her jet-black nose grayed a little and dried up a bit.
But her curly tail kept wagging.
Fast-forward two years: Bernie doesn’t come into the house when we called her in for the night. After trying for a few minutes, we went outside to see what was wrong. We found her lying down on our lawn chair, totally incapable of standing up.
We carried her in for the night, unsure about what was ahead.
The next day, the vet gave the diagnosis: diabetes. Yes – doggy diabetes.
Now we had to give her a shot of insulin every morning, followed by her consolation treat – Goldfish crackers. At least she could digest something.
Bernie is 13-years-old now: her walks have become drags, she’s lost some control of her bowels, she smells. Her once big, brown eyes have been clouded and blinded by diabetic cataracts; running into walls, furniture and people is commonplace now.
Like Bernie, some of us have been dealt a bad hand in life. We can’t control this.
We may find ourselves questioning, “Why me?” But we need to learn as a culture to accept that there are some parts of life we can control, and some we cannot.
Trials and tragedy may bog us down, make us wonder what we’re living for.
But there is always something to live for. We need to be like Bernie. Bernie lives for Goldfish crackers and belly-rubs and car rides.
And, through it all, her curly tail is still wagging.