Have you ever tried peeling a pair of Spanx down to your ankles every time you need to pee? (Guys, you’ll just have to use your imaginations.) There’s that desperation point where the waist band is rolling over your bladder, and the pressure and urgency are enough to bring tears to your eyes. Writing is like that.
Today, I’m having trouble trying to squeeze out a rational thought without spewing musings on the effects of Cool Ranch Doritos on my breath. By the way, I heartily recommend the consumption of Doritos if there’s any chance you might be arrested and thrown into a holding cell with that twitchy little guy that everyone avoids.
Other mental garbage includes: Why did God choose someplace as barren as the middle east for the cradle of civilization? How many colors of crayons are they up to now? Why do front loading washers get that funk odor on a regular basis?
These are the thoughts that pop into my head when I’m trying to avoid the elephant in the room. This is my personal elephant:
Six years ago, a young couple living in a bad neighborhood decided to get a dog. They went to the pound and found a scarred up Rottweiller of indeterminate age. The card on his crate stated that he had serious social issues. He was aggressive, and bad with strangers, children, and other dogs. He was slated to be put down. Naturally, they fell in love.
Skeeter came home with them that day and filled their lives with joy. They didn’t want children, and Skeeter’s issues sealed the deal on that score. Skeeter especially loved Grandma (me) and pie. Say them both in a sentence and he lost his shit.
Sunday, Skeeter was diagnosed with advanced lymphoma, and my kids are devastated. I’ve been spending a lot of time at their house, comforting them, and just being there for Skeet. The meds are making him more comfortable, but we expect that he only has days to live.
All rules are out, and he’s being spoiled silly. You want pie? You want Grandma? You want Grandma to give you pie? No problem. Our time with our four-footed family members is so limited. Do me a favor and give your pets an extra hug for me today.
I’m so sorry Karla.
It’s breaking my heart, but if I cry in front of Matt, he loses it. I’m heading over this afternoon, so I’m doing my crying now.
I’ve been there, Karla. I went through all of this when my bird Sam died last year. He had a huge tumor on his wing. His vet said amputation wasn’t an option, as Sam was too old to survive the surgery (he was 21, ancient for his species). The recommended euthanasia, but Collin and I agreed that Sam had to die at home. He had to die in my arms. Some people might think this silly, but I prayed for that–that he wouldn’t die during the night in his cage. I was holding him when he took his last breath, so I figure God was listening.
My heat goes out to you and your family.
For such a badass dog, he’s enriched so many lives.
That was supposed to read “heart” not “heat.” I’ve been out in the heart too long.
I am so sorry, Karla. Give Skeeter an extra snuggle and smooch for me. I think dogs prove to us that there are angels on this earth, and it appears that in this case your family is proof that there are angels for doggies too. I’ll be keeping your family in my thoughts. Sending love.
Thanks so much, Maya. It definitely works both ways.
Small prayer for Skeeter and if I hug Fiona too hard she might crack open and little Chihuahua looking aliens will take over my house.
How is your bad puppy? Is she still the sweet little so and so that she was when you got her?
That breaks my heart! All of my kids with fur and feathers will get extra hugs for Skeeter’s sake tonight.
They deserve it, for all the joy they bring into our lives.
Oh, I’m so sorry, Karla.
Animals do have that way of getting right under our skin, and losing them is very, very hard.
I just hope I can keep it together when the time comes. The kids need that right now.
The impending death of a pet will short circuit mental clarity very thoroughly.
Amen. Trying to determine quality of life at the end is almost impossible when the heart is involved.
Bob the cat was fifteen when I got him euthanized. Not that there was really a decision to make about it. He was in too bad a shape for any other possibility. It’s been years, but I still dream that I’m bringing him in at night so he can’t dare the raccoons.
I’m sorry to hear about Bob. Some cats won’t back down from anything. I bet he had the raccoons running scared.
I’m so sorry to hear that Karla. Our pets are most times, the best part of our lives. Thank goodness you all have those memories of good times with Skeeter, and those will never leave.
HUGS!
Matt was describing Skeeter’s first sighting of a deer. “I wasn’t scared; I was just uncomfortable.” So many happy memories.