. . . and sometimes I can still feel his head growing strangely heavy against my chest as he took his last breath. It's been one year ago today since I killed my best friend...again. The first time was fourteen years ago. Little John was a replacement puppy who slept at my feet, had a fetish for pacifiers, and liked to yodel. I refused to let him die alone, so I held his little head as the doctor put the needle in his leg and promised me there'd be no pain. He lied. It still hurts.
9 comments:
[[[[soft hug]]]]
he, had a nice name ;]
Long time no see, my fellow Nietzsche quoter. I must say that putting a dog down makes a person feel like a peculiar combination of hero and monster.
Dear God
I don't know if there is anything worse than your dog dying. I've cried more when my dog went down than over some relatives. Not to sound harsh - but the dog loved me more. And I her.
A dog is the best example of unconditional love we have this side of heaven. And when they go - I don't know what can fill that hole.
I had George - a female husky - for 12 years before she fell over with a stomach tumor no one saw coming. I cried for two days straight. And then I went to the shelter and got Ruby - a boxer akita mix.
She healed us all. She didn't fill the hole - but she sure distracted us from it.
I cry with you when you face the death of a good friend.
What a sweet reply, Greg, thank you. I haven't replaced Little John yet. I should soon, I suppose, because my little half chihuahua/half yorkie is alone all day.
yes, VERY :]
iz there a difference??
heres another quote..
"Tell me about the loneliness of good, He-Man..does it compare to the loneliness of evil?"
-excerpt, Masters of the Universe
like Greg said, the death of a dog can be the worst thing that ever happens.
My family got a dog, a golden retriever named conan (yes, after the austrian barbarian), around the time I was born. By the time he was old enough, but I still had a way to go, he'd guard my carriage at the store, look after me at the yard and sleep in my room - sometimes on my feet.
I was sixteen when cancer finally won over him. It was the third tumor he had and another surgery would have killed him. Before that, he had won three other tumors. I still remember the last summer he was with us, we went to our cottage up north for a few weeks. Have you ever seen a big dog like that dive in the water? I hadn't either until then.
Conan was more than just a pet to me, he was my best friend as a child and someone who - alongside my parents ofcourse - watched over me when I couldn't protect myself yet. My father didn't want me to go into the room when he was given the shot, I don't think I could have handled it either. But I remember watching Conan go, and how - one last time - he wagged his tail with more courage than any barbarian film could muster, even though I think he knew what was ahead.
About six months before Conans passing, a small daschund named Cassandra had joined my family. If she hadn't been there, much like Ruby in Gregs life, I don't think how anyone in the family could have stopped crying. But it's the most heartbreaking thing to come back home and realize that a lifelong friend won't be welcoming you, and that the young pup who's only just got to meet him is circling the house looking for her friend.
When the doctors say it doesn't hurt, they lie. After five years, it hurts still to think about it.
like Greg, I too am deeply sorry for your loss.
Thanks, guys, think I'll go on a Cocker Spaniel puppy hunt this weekend. It's time.
Fencing with the fog is fighting an imaginary battle or one that can't be won, trying to accomplish the impossible, or make something harder than it has to be -- all of which apply to my screenwriting efforts.
Thanks for the link to this post, MaryAn. Although it has been some time, I'll reply here.
Here is a link with more about Chili's life and death, and about the dogs who have a better life today because she was gone too soon.
http://whyagoat.blogspot.com/2006_11_01_archive.html
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