|
|
|
OKOKOK, y'know my puppy, Cinnamon??? (my 11-year-old puppy). Well, we went looking and found his: niece and two half-sisters AND father. Yes, he was gonna be a showdog until he chose him^^. Ain't that cool??? So, anyway, that had us pull out a folder and look at his stuff. I found two newspaper articals that my parents had saved. I cried...to death...
Article 1:Dear Ann Landers: Back in 1992, you printed an essay that made alasting impression on me. I have saved it for six years, knowing one day I would ask you to print it again. That day has come. Today, we had to put our dog go sleep. She was nearly 14 years old and couldn't hold on any longer. Taking her to the vet for the very las time was one of the hardest things I've ever done.
Pleas reprint this essay for my dog, Penny. She was part of our family and will be greatly missed.
~D.J.
Dear D.J.: Here is the essay you requested. I did not grow up with pets, but I confess, when I first read this essay, I had a clearer understanding of what a pet can mean to a family, and my eyes moistened a bit, too. It was written my Chuck Wells of Palmyra, Wayne County.
Dogs Don't Have Souls, Do They?
I remember bringing you home. You were so small and cuddly with your tiny paws and soft fur.
You bounced around the room with eyes flashing and ears flopping. Once in a while, you'd let out a little yelp just to let me know this was your territory.
Making a mess of the house and chewing on everything in sight became a passion, and when I scolded you, you just put your head down and looked up at me with those innocent eyes, as if to say,"I'm sorry, but I'll do it again as soon as you're not watching."
As soon as you got older, you protected my by looking out the window and barking at everyong who walked by. When I had a tough day at work, you would be waiting for me with your tail wagging, just to say, "Welcome home. I missed you." You never had a bad day, and I could always count on you to be there for me.
When I sat down to read the paper and watch TV, you would hop on my lap, looking for attention. You never asked for anything more than to have me pat your head so you could go to sleep with your head over my leg.
As you got older, you moved around more slowly. Then, one day, old age finally took its toll, and you couldn't stand on those wobbly legs anymore. I knelt down and patted you lying there, trying to make you young again. You jused looked up at me as if to say that you were old and tired and that after all these years of not asking for anything, you had to ask me for one favor.
With tears in my eyes, I drove you one last time to the vet. One last time, you were lying next to me. For some strange reason, you were able to stand up in the animal hospital; perhaps it was your sense of pride.
As the vet led you away, you stopped for an instant, turned your head and looked at me as if to say, "Thank you for taking care of me."
I thought, "No, thank you for taking care of me."
Article 2: Maxine, the collie, was born while I was nursing Jennifer, the baby. We had a barn behind our house where Maxine's mother, Breeze, had begun labor. Until Jennifer finished nursing, I relied on my then 4-year-old, Julie, to make sure things were going all right. She came in the house at one point to tell me that Breeze had finally had a puppy, but she hadn't broken the sac, she was simply standing and staring at it. I handed the baby to my husband and ran out to the barn. Breeze was indeed only staring at the puppy. "It's your baby, Breeze," I said and ripped open the sac myself. The puppybegan making weak whimpering noises, and Breeze, as though under the influence of a sudden and huge hormonal rush, began licking it industiously, instatnly copetent. Relieved, I went back into the house to continue caring for my own puppy, so to speak.
The first puppy, the rest of the litter born that day and Jennifer all amazed us with how fast they grew. It was a nice time then, having so much new life around us. I like bestsitting the baby in her car seat in the middle of the wobbly puppies, who would hopefully nose around her and crown each other off balance in their search for milk. Eventually we sold all but the one we chose for ourselves and named Maxine.
She was an unusually beautiful dog, but she was far too shy, pulling away from friendly hands until long periods of time would pass and she would feel comfortable. We tolerated her shyness: it was just Maxine, the way it was Maxine to catch bees in her mouth, to lust after cat food, to get down on her front paws and "talk" in the inimitable way of the collie, to detest the milkman, to sleep on the good sofa every single night even thought every morning she would be chastised for doing so.
Max go sick one day, and we attributed it to some hamburger she'd stolen from our garbage. She didn't get better the next day, or the next, and I began to get worried. "It's just doggie flu," my husband said. "They get these things. She'll get better." But she didn't. By the next day, I could see that her coat had lost its luster. She stopped following us around the house and simply lay in a corner and slept. She souldn't eat, not even cat food. Her gums turned yellow.
I took her to the vet, who looked at her briefly and then asked my husband and me if we cared to discuss her prognosis in front of the children. I sent them into the waiting room and steeled myself for the bd news. Maxine lay down at my feet and closed her eyes. "I doesn't look good," the vet began. He explained that Maxine had obviously siffered great damage to her liver, though he was unable to tell us why. Her chances for recovery were about one in ten. He seemed to think that the best thing to do was to put her to sleep. Stunned, we asked to have the night to think about it.
We went into the waiting room to tell the children that Max was very, very sick, needed to stay at the hospital, and that the doctor thought she would probably die. They were given an opportunity to say good-bye to her, which they did with bewildered hugs. Then they walked out of the building wiping tears from their eyes, mildly embarrassed, but mostly heartbroken. We all cried in the car on the way home. I wanted not to cry. I wanted to be calm and reassuring, but the truth was that I loved Max too, and I kept seeing the saddest of images: her head on my knee, her gentleness and limitless patience with the children, her happiness with her Christmas present (a box of cat food).
Back at home, my husband and I decided that although it was probably hopeless, we couldn't make the decision to put her to sleep without at least some labratory evidence. I told the children to remember that Max did have a slight chance; that she might make it. They bought that for the sake of temporary comfort and played outside for a while. But then it was bedtime, and the fear and pain caught up with them. So I rose to my full adult height, and I put on my adult voice and my adult, confident face, and I told them this:
"Look here, this is what happens with people and dogs all the time. You get a dog and you get to know it and love it and then bang! I gets sick, it gets run over, it gets too old, something happens, and you lose it. You just have to sort of get back on the horse. You have to think that Max had a very happy life, and that if shedies, she won't know she's dying--she'll only thing she's going to sleep. If Max could talk, she would tell you that she wants you to be happy and not shriek and wail with grief. She didn't like loud noises or crying. She would want us to remember her as healthy, with she almost always was. And if we do lose her, it will be a tribute to her for us to get another puppy and keep on loving dogs."
Something worked because nobody was crying anymore. My children felt better. Miraculously both were asleep in about ten minutes. I climbed in my bed and put my head on the pillow. Then I turned into it so no one would hear my cry, which I did for a long while.
The vet called the next day to say reports indicated that Max would not recover. I was silent for a long time. Then I told him to put her to sleep. I called the children into the living room to tell them. They cried, but they had been prepared, and they handled it fairly well. We decided to get another dog immediately.
We drove up to a breeder in New Hampshire the next day to "just look" at collie puppies. There was a sable female there, the kind Max was. As I write, she lies at my feet, enthusiastically chewing on my loafers. Here we go again.
~End~
Tell me you didn't cry. Yes, I'm very passionate about this kind of stuff. I love my puppy to death and will simply DIE when he's put to sleep wile I'm stuck at college who knows how many miles away? Maybe when that happens, I'll write something for him...
((I know you, my friends. NO EDITING!!!! It took a freakin' REALLY LONG TIME to type this up on top of the fact that I tried to type it EXACTLY!!! Understood??))
 Laitie · Sat Mar 10, 2007 @ 11:39pm · 3 Comments |
|
|
|
|
|
