Why I'll Never Regret the Vet Bills, Sleepless Nights, or Heartbreak
People often ask me how I do it. How I keep taking in older dogs when I know how the story ends. How I manage the night-time wake-ups, the uncertainty, the inevitable heartbreak.
The answer is simpler than you'd think: because they're worth it. Every single sleepless night. Every moment of worry. Every impossible decision.
But let me be honest with you about what "worth it" actually looks like.
The Vet Bills (Surprisingly, Not the Hardest Part)
Here's something that might surprise you: the vet bills weren't the nightmare I expected.
When you adopt a 16-year-old dog – especially one who's blind and deaf like Hamish was, or one who's been rescued from euthanasia like Barney – people assume you're signing up for astronomical veterinary costs. And yes, there are expenses, but in my experience, they have been relatively minimal. It helps to have pain medication on hand.
But here's what I learned: preventive care and quality of life management aren't the same as crisis intervention.
With Hamish and Barney both, I focused on comfort and maintenance rather than aggressive treatments. I wasn’t trying to add years at any cost – I was trying to add quality to the years they had left. That meant:
Joint supplements and pain management (affordable and effective)
Vet visits only when needed
Knowing when to treat and when to simply provide comfort
The vet bills were manageable because we were realistic about our goals. We weren't trying to perform miracles. We were trying to keep two elderly dogs comfortable, safe, and happy.
The Sleepless Nights (The Real Cost No One Warns You About)
This is where caring for senior dogs – especially blind and deaf senior dogs – becomes something most people can't understand until they've lived it.
2 AM Bathroom Trips in the Freezing Cold
When you have a blind and deaf dog, they can't hear you call them back inside. They can't see where the door is. So when Hamish needed to go out at 2 AM, I went with him. Every single time.
I'd stand in my dressing gown in the backyard after sometimes carrying him out to the grass, sometimes in the rain, and watch this utterly amazing blind dog slowly navigate the garden he couldn’t see. Waiting. Guiding him back with gentle touches because he couldn't hear my voice.
I lost count of how many nights I was outside three, four, five times between midnight and dawn.
The Dementia Hours
But the bathroom trips were predictable. The dementia wasn't.
Both Hamish and Barney developed dementia in their final years. If you've never experienced a dog with dementia, let me paint you a picture:
3:47 AM. You wake to the sound of whining or total silence but you see your little old boy is standing in the corner of the room, facing the wall, confused about how he got there and unable to work out how to turn around.
You get up. You gently redirect him. You settle him back down.
4:23 AM. He's up again, pacing. He's forgotten he just went outside. He's forgotten where his bed is. He's forgotten that you're right there.
5:15 AM. He's pacing again, increasingly distressed. Nothing you do seems to help. He's lost in his own mind, and you're losing your mind trying to comfort him.
This wasn't one bad night. This was months of nights.
They always slept in their own bed, next to mine. You cannot put a blind and deaf dog on your bed, it is simply too dangerous. So I would lay in bed and watch him on the floor or pacing or trying to settle and get up and down when needed and inevitably around 4am I would make a coffee. Both Hamish and Barney were lucky, for as my day was just beginning they would spend countless hours during the day snoozing and catching up on the sleep they didnt get the night before
The Constant Vigilance
When you have a blind and deaf dog, you can't just let them roam the house unsupervised. They can't hear danger. They can't see obstacles. They can't hear you warn them.
So you're always watching. Always listening. Always ready to intervene. It's exhausting in a way that's hard to explain to someone who hasn't done it.
The Heartbreak (The Price That Never Gets Easier)
I've had to make "the decision" three times now. Jesse, then Hamish, then Barney.
Each time, I knew it was coming. Each time, I thought I was prepared. Each time, I was absolutely gutted.
The Weight of Playing God
There's something uniquely agonizing about being the one who decides when a life ends. Even when you know – truly know – that it's time, the weight of that decision sits on your chest like a stone. I only knew I wanted to try to time things so none of my beautiful boys would ever suffer. Not an easy thing to do.
With Hamish, I knew he was struggling. He was anxious more often than he was calm. The quality of life that we'd worked so hard to maintain was slipping away despite everything I tried.
But he still wagged his tail when I touched him. He still ate his breakfast. So how do you know? How do you decide that today is the day?
With Barney, I'd already been through it once, and somehow it was even harder. Because I knew exactly what was coming. I knew how empty the house would feel. I knew the guilt that would creep in – Should I have waited another week? Another day?
The Quiet After
The hardest part isn't always the moment itself. It's the days after. It's reaching for a medication that's no longer needed. It's waking at 2 AM out of habit and realizing no one needs to go outside. It's the absence of the gentle snoring from their bed. It's the space where they used to lie in the kitchen while you made dinner.
It's the dozens of tiny moments each day where you remember they're gone, and the grief hits you all over again.
So Why Do It?
If the vet bills are real, the sleepless nights are brutal, and the heartbreak is inevitable – why keep doing it? Why did I take on Teddy two years ago, knowing how this story ends?
Because of all the previous moments you share with them, and the absolutely admiral attitude they have to life. I found them to be incredibly grateful. Grateful to be alive and to be loved, and I can tell you, I learned a thing or two along the way. They taught me that every day is a gift, and it should be lived hard, with passion and intensity and as though it may be your last, and without these incredible dogs I may never have learned that.
The 2 AM Moments That Weren't Just Hard
Yes, I stood in the garden at 2 AM countless times. But I also stood there on clear nights, looking at stars, with a blind dog who trusted me completely to keep him safe. There was something profound in that trust. Something sacred in being the person he relied on.
The Small Victories
When Hamish learned the layout of the house so well he could navigate it confidently despite being unable to see or hear. When Barney, who'd been hours from euthanasia, fell asleep on my lap with a contentment he'd never known before. When Teddy scaled that baby gate because he'd decided I was his person.
These weren't small moments. They were everything.
The Love That Defies Logic
Senior dogs, especially rescue senior dogs, love with an intensity that's hard to describe. They seem to know they've been given something precious – time, safety, comfort – and they cherish it in a way that younger dogs often don't.
Hamish and Barney didn't take a single day for granted. Every meal was celebrated. Every gentle touch was received with gratitude. Every morning they woke up in a warm bed, they seemed genuinely delighted about it.
They taught me what it means to be truly present. To find joy in simple comfort. To love fiercely even when time is short.
The Person It Made Me
I'm not the same person I was before Hamish. Before Barney. Before learning to function on broken sleep and make impossible decisions and love something even when you know it will break your heart. I'm more patient. More present. Less focused on things that don't actually matter. More willing to sit with discomfort because I've learned that the hard things are often the most meaningful things.
These dogs didn't just take from me. They gave me a different way of being in the world.
The Truth About Regret
Here's what I want you to understand: I don't regret any of it. Not the sleep I lost. Not the worry. Not the nights I stood in the rain watching a blind dog sniff the garden. Not the mornings I woke to dementia-driven confusion and had to gently guide a disoriented dog back to calm. Not the decisions I had to make when the time came to let them go.
I regret nothing because loving them was a privilege, not a burden.
Yes, it cost me. But it gave me so much more.
If You're Considering a Senior Dog
I won't lie to you. It's hard. Harder than people who haven't done it can imagine. But if you're considering adopting a senior dog – especially one with health issues, sensory loss, or behavioral challenges – I want you to know this:
You're not signing up for heartbreak. You're signing up for meaning.
The costs are real. The vet bills, the time, the sleep, the emotional toll – they're all real. But so is the joy. So is the love. So is the profound sense of purpose that comes from being exactly what a vulnerable creature needs.
Hamish lived to 19 because someone was willing to adopt a blind and deaf 16-year-old. Barney lived to 19 because a vet refused to euthanise a perfectly healthy older dog and I was fortunate enough to be chosen to spend his remaining years with him. And of course my previous Jesse boy. I was lucky as he was my side kick from a puppy so we had a long and wonderful time together and I was truly heartbroken when he left this earth. And along came Teddy who is thriving at 17 because he climbed a gate to choose me, and I chose him right back.
The question isn't whether the costs are worth it. The question is: what kind of life do you want to live?
For me, the answer is a life where I stand in the garden at 2 AM with a dog who can't see me but knows I'm there. A life where I make the hard decisions out of love, not convenience. A life where I give the ones nobody wants a place to be safe, warm, and treasured. A life where I might lose sleep, spend money, and have my heart broken – but where I never, ever have to wonder if I did enough.
Your Turn
Have you cared for a senior dog? Are you considering it? What do you worry about most?
I'd love to hear your story in the comments. And if you're on the fence about adopting a senior – especially a "difficult" one – and have questions, ask me. I'll tell you the truth, the whole truth, and help you decide if it's right for you.
Because the world needs more people willing to stand in the garden at 2 AM.
