Yesterday when I pulled out of the Wild Iris parking lot, turned onto University, and then stopped at the red light… I noticed this little guy. That always makes me sad. I feel like such a homewrecker. Like, somewhere, now, there’s a lizard family whose mommy or daddy won’t be coming home. Little lizard babies are going to grow up thinking they’ve been abandoned, or that one of their parents has been eaten by a cat. GREAT. Little lizard teenagers are going to be in lizard therapy, AND IT’S ALL MY FAULT. That, and the little guy is probably going to get blown off my car and will have a horrible flattening death at 40 mph. Fortunately he held on until the next light, and then scurried down under the hood. WHERE HE PROBABLY BURNED TO DEATH ON MY ENGINE. ::sob::
Wow. Over-emotional much?
Then I realized that it’s probably not the impending death of the lizard that was making me so sad.
You guys all know that Old Dog is, well, old. I mean, we got her a Backup Dog! FOUR YEARS AGO! But like a Monty Python skit, she keeps holding on. “I’m not dead yet,” she says, as her back legs refuse to get purchase on the floor and I have to lift her up so that she can go outside, where she doesn’t even make it to the grass before she poops, and then I have to remember to clean off the porch. “It’s just a flesh wound,” she says, as I hug her and feel that one side of her chest is so much larger than the other side that I feel like I’m hugging two dogs. She sleeps almost all the time… you know, except at night, when I’m trying to sleep, and then she scratches and whines and scratches. She’s covered with fatty deposits that I pray are really just fatty deposits and not the tumors I’m pretty sure they are. She’s deaf as a post. Sleeps through the daily thunderstorms. Doesn’t want the cats to snuggle her any more, in spite of this just being a couple of weeks ago. Her face is so gray, compared to when she was young. She still eats like a horse, though. Maybe that’s because I hide her pain pill at the bottom of her food bowl, so she’s got to eat the whole thing to get to it.
She’s tired. She doesn’t move around much, and naps or even deep sleeps almost the entire day. I think she’s trying to tell me that she wants to go run in the fields with Heidi, for whom she was “Backup Dog”. Oh, Bridgie. I’m glad we could get you another kitten; you loved Brindle so much when she was tiny (and you still do). I’m glad you love your sister. I don’t want you to go. I want you to be young and healthy forever. But I also love you beyond reason, and don’t want you to be in pain. That is the burden we shoulder when we agree to be responsible pet owners. That we will take care of them, all the time. We will do what needs to be done. So I’ll make that call, if that’s what I have to do. I broke down (got brave enough?) to call the new vet today. She can’t come until Tuesday the 14th. Maybe she’ll tell me I’m crazy and paranoid and all Bridgett needs is a stronger arthritis medicine. Or maybe she’ll look at me and tell me I should have called her sooner. Hopefully she will tell me I’m calling her at the right time, and that it’s OK to make this decision for my sweet, loyal, doofy dog.
This week sucks.