First: Yes to the 1st week of June for the letters. Agreed to talking about ourselves more, but I'm a bit emotional today so I'm afraid it'll have to wait until next week for me. Instead, prose. I do like to write as a hobby sometimes, so there's that. It's one of the reasons I like John. Game recognizes game.
So one of my dogs is sick. Today I went home to look after him, completely against my plans to watch NCIS all Monday long. But my mother called me early enough to wake me up and for me to not function properly for a conversation. She told me that I should go home today to see my dog, Sparky, because the vet was coming tomorrow and I might not see him again. To which I responded, "Uhhhhh." I had made plans on going home and seeing him sometime later in the week. She said that she would call back later to see if I would change my plans for the day. She never did. I went home anyway.
The tumor on his front leg had been licked into an injury too grotesque for me to, in good conscience, describe to you ladies. His skull seemed to tremble under my fingers as I scratched between his ears in my usual greeting. After I got situated I laid down with him, half on the cool tile by the front door and half on one of the many rugs/mats laid down to help him walk around the house, our heads on his hair covered comforter. I tried to pet the pain tremors out of his body, and the panic I felt reminded me of the time I came home to find blood all over his face and the tip of his ear missing. It also brought to mind what my mother told me the vet said about putting our dog down. He said that we'd know when to do it. Was this it?
I cooked freezer burned beef and combined it with leftover rice from week old Chinese for him to eat and kept up a constant supply of water. He started to look better. I'm actually proud of myself. It's good to know that I can be helpful in a situation like this.
My family all came home at the same time, relieving me of dog watching duty, but this seemed to be the most anguishing part of the ordeal. Now, my dog is not clean. He's been sick for a while and he is not a small dog. No way to wash him. Touching him left greasy dirt on the pads of my fingers, but I always washed my hands after petting him. Every time I petted my dog, I knew that this would be the last chances for me to do so and maybe the best comfort that I could give him for the remainder of his life. Whenever I heard the faucet running, I knew that my family member felt the same as I did and felt uncomfortable that I knew that. My hands are so dry from washing them as much as I did that they sound more like paper rubbing together than skin. Running faucets are starting to make me feel irrationally nervous.
My mother's steady gaze looked so uncertain when she asked me, "when the vet comes tomorrow and he asks if we should put him down, what should I say?" I thought of the moment I had first seeing him and feeling the pain ripple through his body. I also thought of his return to normalcy after food and water and after my brother sat with him in front of the house watching the sun go down. I never wanted to put him down out of our convenience, because we were tired of taking care of a dying dog. It must be because it would be what is best for the dog. For Sparky.
I answered her with a resolute, "I don't know". I hated leaving her to the decision because I knew that for once she didn't want to be the one who had to make the decision so I said, "Whatever you say, it will be right." It was the truth. Whichever way this goes tomorrow, it will be the right way. Not because of the truly immense faith that I have in my mother, but because of my doggy Sparkey who is both dying and alive.
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