Wednesday, February 11, 2015

it is so hard.

She’s dying.

We are pet owners – I can remember very few windows in time that didn’t have a dog in them. Even dogless, there was at least a cat, and the times without dogs were short.

Currently we have 2 dogs. Effie is a beautiful golden retriever mix of some sort, a shelter rescue who fits perfectly in our hearts and home. We adopted her as a puppy, and outside of the occasional grumble over the shedding,  we adore everything about her.

And then there is Peeg.

Peeg (Weeg, PG, Peeger Weeg, all variants that stemmed from “Pretty Girl”) parked herself in front of my vehicle one day and refused to move. She ended up making herself comfortable in my car, then in our home as we tried to figure out who she belonged to.

Apparently, she belonged to us, we just weren’t aware of it right away.

Peeg has lived in our house now for almost 6 years. She is a puggle (we think) with a coloring identical to Effie’s. The sisters that were simply meant to be. And they have been. There has never been aggression, animosity, difficulty – owning these two, picked up at different points in time and different stages in life has been as easy as it could have been. We don’t know how old Peeg is, but it’s estimated that she is about 9.

And she’s dying.

A sore that was swollen was not. It was a mass. And even when it all but went away, it didn’t really. And when it came back, it did so with a vengeance. And it’s cancer.

And it’s terminal.

We’ve had the mass removed, we have started medications to keep her as healthy as we can for as long as we can. We’ve told the kids… That’s not true. HE’S told the kids. My husband took on that challenge because it is tax season and I am not there. It was as hard as you would expect.

Hardest for my girl. She is a precious, tenderhearted child, and she loves that dog. We all love that dog, but the bond with the girl child is deep.

Her dying is crushing me. Hard now because she seems so healthy. She’s doing so well. Eating, playing, being her usual self. But you can see that it’s different. Or maybe we’re making it different. Could be that. It’s heavy in my chest, and I find myself overwhelmed by it.

This was not our dog, this pudgy, stinky-breathed, trash digger. She was just a dog dumped or lost, looking for home.

Home was our house. Home IS our house.

And she’s dying.

And it’s crushing me.

No comments:

Post a Comment