On Pets, Love and Loss

I’m happy to report that my poor doggy is feeling better. He’s trying to hide it, though. He’s deeply conflicted and seems to want to pretend he’s not here, as any attention from us ends up (in his mind) with a needle, a pill being shoved down his throat or a finger poking his behind. He seems to forget about those eggs I scrambled for him yesterday.

He’s not entirely rational.

However, since he’s now going up and downstairs at his usual pace (I had to carry him for awhile. Yes, it was pathetic.) and willing to snooze in his usual post by the window (I’ve got the bedroom door closed, so he can’t get to his Crate of Denial), I believe things are on the up-and-up. Now, if only we can get him eating actual dog food again.

Still won’t look at me. Sigh.

I’ve had to start facing the difficult fact that, at age 11, Myshkin is well into his senior years. A Miniature Poodle, he’s sturdy and strong, a great example of the breed. He’s also super masculine, nothing frou-frou about him. (Except the neuroses, but I’m not one to judge.) I always told Dear Hubby that it was his job to make sure Myshi lives forever, or at least until 20. Toothless, blind, wheelchair, diapers, I don’t care.

It’s not so funny anymore. And I don’t want him to be toothless, blind, in a wheelchair and wearing diapers. No one wants that. I won’t let him live in misery. I don’t even want to think about that. Not yet.

Three years ago, we lost three of our four cats within a four-month span. It was horrible. I haven’t written about it because, well, it was horrible. Mylos, our 14-year old orange tabby male shorthair, had been diabetic for several years, though we managed to get him into remission twice. He was a wonderful, cooperative old boy, but once he developed painful complications, we had to make the decision.

Isn’t Mylos a cutie?

Tabitha, our oldest daughter’s 16-year old silver-grey tabby female shorthair, lived with kidney failure for a long time, despite being difficult to treat. Graceful, with an incredibly luxurious coat, she was a dignified, rail-thin old lady, who would have simply faded away. We tortured ourselves about her; she wasn’t in pain, exactly, but eventually we had to make the humane choice.

Tabby in a bed, on the couch. That’s Addie, our KCC spaniel, underneath. I do not know how this came about.

Sophie, my favorite (Not really. But sort of.) was our middle daughter’s bombshell calico/tortoiseshell longhair. Healthy, perky, sociable, her death was the worst. One day, with no warning, she became unable to walk. X-rays revealed an enormous abdominal mass, impossible to remove surgically. As the youngest (we think, she came to us as a young adult) we were completely unprepared, and the loss hit hard.

Sophie actually is on the cover of a book.

Now we have Bryan (he came with the name), our youngest daughter’s big, tough orange tabby who doesn’t miss the rest of them at all, and is pleased to have us all to himself. At 14, his health is pretty good, but still. He’s 14.

The Life of Bryan

It’s a fact of my personality that I tend to hold onto things. You know, old magazines, children, grudges, stuff like that. It’s not easy for me to let go, even when it would be better for all if I did. I blame my Scorpioness. Also, my brain.

And I hate that in this stage of my life, loss could strike at any time. And not just my pets. I’m thinking of putting my mother in bubble-wrap and giving my dad an “I’m Fine is Probably a Lie” forehead tattoo. I’m just glad they’re near enough for me to intervene when they decide to fall off sidewalks and explode their organs. I’ll refrain from including photos. But I’ve got them, parents. Remember that.

Love is sharpened by the awareness of loss. I hate that, but I must accept it.

Now it’s time to check my dog’s bum. Thank you for your time.

Gemma, our youngster. Just thought I’d share. Because of the adorableness.