Pets, Vets, & No Debts

We were out running on the bike trails mid-day on Saturday. It’s one of my favorite places to run since other than one stretch near the interstate, you almost feel like you aren’t in a city. There are a few places deer have made a home and we always see lots of ducks and geese. A little taste of the country for my city bitches, if you will.

Unfortunately we did see one flattened frog near the golf course. Sad-faced me. I didn’t wonder if the biker had any issues, I worried that the frog suffered. So it wouldn’t surprise you to know that we stopped near 26th Street to pick-up a baby turtle and set him down by the river. His little shell’s diameter was only a bit over an inch, so you can imagine how slowly he moved. He would not meet the same fate as the frog… at least not on my watch. There is still a bit of the little girl who used to hold funerals for the dead birds she would find in me.

I have been thinking a lot about just what it is that animals mean to me lately. For instance, all but one of my tattoos feature animals. I try to be mindful of how the animals I choose to eat are raised. I get way more excited about pet pics than small human pics on the Facebook. I like my bitches more than most people. I interrupt my runs to get baby turtles off the bike trail.

What got me going on this was that a friend of mine, let’s call her Farmer in the Deltron, was struggling with what to do about her beloved dog, Finny. He was getting older and the usual age issues were coming to light. Even with the health stuff coming out, he was still a pretty happy dog, which is one of my favorite things about them. They find something simple to wag about, even if their bodies are falling apart.

My advice: Letting him go before it gets too bad is a gift.

Letting go. Such easy advice, but probably the hardest thing to do in the whole world. Whether it’s a relationship or some object like a shirt or a car, it’s such a human thing to hold on to everything as tightly as we can, especially with the fear of actually losing it. We will hold on to the point of enabling, like the parent of an addicted child.

I’m just as guilty as the next person. It’s part of the reason I’ve done the major clean-ups at my house and insisted that 100 items leave via garbage, recycling, or donation, before even a gallon of milk can come back in. It’s weird how letting go of a sweatshirt can let so much more go.

Not like an article of clothing is anywhere on par with a dog. The friend, the defender, the protector, the pain in the ass. It’s like having an entertaining, energetic child that just wants to have fun, eat, cuddle, sleep, and eat some more. But the child also knows how to perfectly read your emotions, whether you need your tears licked away or want to dance to “Single Ladies.” (Joey loves that song, cuz I liked it and put a collar on it.)

I had to let go of my childhood dog, Blacky, a Chessie-Lab mix. It was never an issue with death, everyone knew it was time. He was almost completely deaf and his hips were shot. In retrospect, we did probably wait a bit too long, but my dad waited until I was home from college one weekend so I could be there.

Blacky never liked going to the vet and always put up a fuss. I think my dad had to practically drag him in to get shots. I have to laugh just thinking about it. My dad wasn’t much for nonsense like that. But on that final trip, Blacky seemed pretty okay with it. I’ve heard other people say that, as if the dog intuition takes over and realizes it’s all for good. I have to believe that since they are wired with a pack mentality where showing weakness can get one left behind. Canine Zen, perhaps.

I still tear up when I think about it. Over 12 years have passed and trust me, I wouldn’t have wanted it to be any other way. My older brother and dad were there so we all got to say goodbye and I held his handsome old face in my hands as he took his last breaths. My brother said, “I’ll be walking behind you again someday.” I think the old farm vet even shed a tear at that one. It was such a dignified, beautiful way for him to leave this life. We buried him near the farm where my dad grew up, where they had spent so much time hunting, and I left wildflowers with him in his grave, just like I did with the birdies.

So Farmer in the Deltron had a decision to make. I don’t know the specifics; the specifics don’t matter. I know that she let him have a whole bacon cheeseburger and some chicken strips, so I can only imagine how happy his last meal was. And I know he was loved, fully and unconditionally. Not a bad life, not bad indeed.