My doggy is dying.He's full of cancer, lymphoma to be specific. I worry about his level of pain; I worry about his quality of Life. The vet said that he had, like, one or two months to live, given that his disease was high-caliber. Intense. Uber-degreed. Metastatic. I forget exactly what the vet said--the terms that he used--but I know what he meant; I catch his drift.
Louie's doing pretty okay, right now. He eats, he barks (he farts like no one's business). He is okay, right now. I just dread what is to come. Because I love him, you know. I have soooo much love for the little kid, the skinny kid, the sick kid. I--well, it doesn't even register, to me. On too many fucking levels.
[As I kiss him on his snout...] He and I have been inseparable for six-and-a-half years. He's been here, with me, as a Constant.
That is one of the myriad things that tugs at me about this. And but one also has to deal with end-of-life issues ($136.85 from the Rochester branch of the Michigan Humane Society, but then I have to take his body and bury it. Otherwise, three hundred extra dollars will be added--'cause they have to outsource, don'tcha know, to the Burners.) I'll tell you this: I wanted his ashes to spread as I would want, but I'll be got-damned if I'm going to spend another three bills on his death. But, this too: If I don't take his body or pay for the outsourced Burning, what in the hell will they do with his body?! Uh-uh.
I ain't having it. I'll bury the sweet boy myself. I will. I will. I will.
He deserves Respect. He is not some piece of biological garbage. He ain't. He's Louie.
The Best Dog Evah.
My boy.
And it is fucking killing me.
Oh, fuck.
Damn it.
Like I said, he's doing okay, right now.
(I fucking miss him already, damn it.)
***
hot tears dot the page
such Good cannot be equaled
Love is like taffy
***
It keeps pulling you back.
I. Just. Don't. Know.
I think that I have been dealing with my best friend's demise in a detached, clinical manner. No. Uh-uh. It don't work that way, motherfucker. Try to hide from the emotions. Just fucking try. It can't be done. I'll have to face it--them, the emotions--eventually. I cry, but they are tears of angst, they are tears of frustration. Fuck that. They're also tears of loss and tears of Love and tears of what-coulda-beens and tears of recognition.
I know this: I love Louie sooo damned much. Sooo damned much.
To me, he is not just a "dog". (And, by the way? What dog is "just" a dog? Very very few. They're God's gift to us, for sure.) No, Lou is not just a dog. He is Memory. He is a slice of my (hopefully long) life. He is a lighthouse seen from the stormy sea. He is a beacon of Hope and Love. He is....
He is just a dog.
Bullshit.
He. Is. Louie.
He. Is--
LOVE
4 comments:
Oh Adam!
I'm so sorry.
Bunny xx
I was very glad to see him (and you) yesterday. He may be thinning down, but he's all Lou in the eyes and the manner. Love you, xoxo
Bunny?! Wow. It's been a long time, eh? Good to hear from you. Yes, he has his good days--like today--and some bad days. Actually, the streoids I have been giving him seem to be doing what they're suppoed to do: shrink the tumor on his chest/shoulder and (hopefully) give him a better quality of life. Because that is the most important thing for him, right now. [He just peed on the kitchen floor, something he has never done...not a good sign.]
Missy Bumblebee: Yes, he is all Louie. And I love him.
sweet ... glad yer feelin' it guy, tho hard ...easy to go numb ... good luck and we're thinking about you out here
Post a Comment