 |
Charles Magnus |
This week, on the second anniversary of my father’s death, my beloved dog Chuck had a cerebral accident of some sort and was put down to
spare him the miserable hours of dying.
He was perfectly well the night before and when I woke up
(he did not wake me, which was unusual) his left leg was paralyzed and he
writhed when he was moved. Linda, my
landlady, took us to the vet, both she and I still in pajamas. Dr. Amy
pointed out the vertical nystagmus* and we noticed that one eye was coming out
of his head and the other was not. He
was drooling at this point, and leaking stool.
She was able to give him the shot while he lay in my
arms. I am grateful it was clear what needed to happen. I'm grateful it was quick. I'm grateful that he was well until the end.
I never mistook Chuck for a human, he was my much loved dog, and I was his person. I feel as if a part of me has been amputated. I think of the walks not taken, the times I didn't take him into work on the weekends, and I hope that the biscuits and the brushing, the walks we did take, I hope they were enough. He will be cremated and I am going to sneak him into Hollywood Cemetery to rest with my father, and eventually my mother and eventually myself.
I never mistook Chuck for a human, he was my much loved dog, and I was his person. I feel as if a part of me has been amputated. I think of the walks not taken, the times I didn't take him into work on the weekends, and I hope that the biscuits and the brushing, the walks we did take, I hope they were enough. He will be cremated and I am going to sneak him into Hollywood Cemetery to rest with my father, and eventually my mother and eventually myself.
*fast, uncontrollable movements of the eyes, in this case up and down.
