Jan 17, 2015
Not much sleep… patches of fitfulness interspersed by barking. We manage a walk to the IGA, ever so slowly. Against my nature I wait at the lights. Last time I slowly crossed with her away from the lights a car came hooning past, and yelled. They were clearly important and needed those ten seconds more than me.
A slight woman with a faraway face sees luca limping and asks abruptly, “What is wrong?”
“She has cancer” I reply. “Oh” she replied, almost in anger and turns on heel and walks.
Sorry to inconvenience you with the truth. A ball of black rage sits in my stomach.
I get ready to go out and feed her. I accidentally knock her. She screams. As much as a dog can scream, she screams. It’s the first time she has done this. And then she alternates between trying to hide and looking to me for comfort. Looking to the one who kicked her for comfort.
I can’t see through tears and curl up on the floor in the foetal position next to her. I am so fucking sorry. I’m so sorry my love.
I’m so goddamned sorry that you have been the best friend to me, and so many others. And I sit here with all the useless human knowledge, supported by years of experience of vets and pain management. And I can’t fix it. For the first time I really start thinking that maybe things might need to happen sooner.
I got told 3 or 4 months was the average a month ago. I’m not sure how many times I can hear her scream like that. And does it make a difference anyway – she spends most of the day napping anyway, she is an old dog.
But then how is it my place to end a life too soon? How do I know she wants me to?
She is eating, she is alert, she is excited when we have visitors, she is still keen to walk… small distances.
We will go to the beach and I will make up my mind.