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Aug 18, 2014 - 09:39 AM |
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Dog stuff. |
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I've been holding off on doing this for a couple of months now, but here goes.
Stephen and I's first dog together, Lucy, passed away at the end of June. She was about 14 years old (we aren't completely sure, because she walked up to our house as a strayprobable drop-off on the side of the road, but we had her for over 9 years). She'd been on her way out for a while, but the vet said that she wasn't suffering, so there had been no need to put her down. We went on a family cruise in the middle of the month, and she stayed at a Pet Hotel, did really well. My parents came by a few times to visit with her, and let us know how she was doing.
Then we came home. We had one more week with her. She was more energetic on walks than she had been in months, but she was also sleeping and lazy more and more in the room. We'd had some problems getting her to eat off and on, but we had that solved by the time we went on vacation (grilled chicken does wonders for a dog's tummy)... but she wouldn't eat. I took her to the vet, who gave us some fluids to put her on, but she still wouldn't eat. So getting nutrition, but we also knew that, after the weekend, we were probably going to need to take her in to say goodbye.
That Sunday morning, I had to sing a solo at church, so I left early to go to both services as I had to. She seemed to be sleeping OK, and was responsive enough when I took her out. Second service, Stephen called me during prayer. I ignored the first call (it's pretty SOP for us when I'm somewhere like church, because accidental dials happen), but when the phone rang the second time, I got up and left the sanctuary. He was upset, said he had just woken up and heard her whine when he went to the bathroom, and it was time. I left the service (my director knew the situation, so nothing needed to be said) and met him and his dad at the vet. He was holding her, she was wrapped up in a towel, and having some problems breathing. He handed her to me (I'd gotten to the vet first and was pacing in the lot, my parents were on the way (they were at the service that morning, so they called when it was over, having noticed I wasn't in the choir loft anymore), and we went in. We had to wait for the vet to come administer so I kept holding her.
She fell asleep in my arms and didn't wake up.
We had her cremated, so we wouldn't have to bury her somewhere we weren't going to be in a year. I still rub the top of her urn every now and then. Fucking hell I miss her so goddamn much some days, even now. Reading Sandman helped (it's become part of my grieving process (holy god issue 8, and Death during the wake hurt but are so cathartic because she does understand and she does give life meaning)), and so did the other part of this post.
We have a new puppy. Her name is Ethel, and she's just over three months old. This is her at the vet:
(I don't have a lot of awake pictures of her, because she's fucking twitchy)
She's an American Cocker, like Lucy (unless Lucy was a Colonial (cross between American and English Cockers)), and she's a bundle of sweetness. And biting. Holy god the biting. Yeah. At least we've got her mostly potty-trained, and she's taken to crate training (until we can let her sleep on the bed through the night without having to worry about her peeing on the comforter again) pretty well, even though we put it up on the desk chair on my side of the bed to keep her calm at night. Spoiled.
But yeah, she helps with missing Lucy. Except for the days where she makes it worse. Y'all know how it goes, right?
So. Still grieving, but also happy because hey, puppy.
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