Jan 21, 2015
Its 2:34am and time for the war on drugs. I hate myself as I force drugs down her throat.
I drive up and down the coast for a bit, wondering where we can go… that beach has no sand, that one is too steep, that one has too many steps for me to carry her down…we are a pretty pathetic duo.
I find a quiet patch of beach and pray that people won’t pick fights about the dog on the non dog beach. I don’t have the emotional reserves and they might get more anger than I have capacity to keep inside.
She is clearly struggling today and so I dose her again, and in my rush to calm her before drawing the attention of the rest of the people on the beach I proceed to get her a bit stoned.
She finally calms and wanders drunkenly around the shallows. I sit with her as people wander past bemused. She relents and actually lays down… her cancerous tumour leg floats harmlessly … the little tufts of hair on her feet move like soft seaweed as she sways back and forth in the small waves. She leans her head on my lap and is still as we sit in the water. I hold my breath so as not to disturb the moment and try not to cry with relief and love.
Eventually she stirs and wants to move again. We even manage a couple of ball throws. The kids that had earlier said hello and asked about her come back over, and we sit and chat as Luca limps around us.
Their mum joins us. They too just lost their dog, 16 years. The kids are resilient and the mum is relieved – she thought the holidays were going to be ruined, but the decision was the hardest part. She is glad she made it.
At that point in time, on that particular day, it was the most important thing anyone could have said to me.