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This thread is going to the dogs...

tumblr_p7msfkYiMV1sd2f8bo1_500.jpg
 
My buddy is getting old, and becoming sicker. He takes - or rather, submits to - pills each morning and evening to keep him going. He hates these pills, and disdains my attempts to conceal them with peanut butter.

While he keeps surprising me with his ability to rally, it’s clear that he will leave me before too long. He can barely see. His tummy is frequently upset. He wobbles. Since climbing stairs requires him to expend considerable time and effort, I built a little ramp to give him more independence. It takes a lot of clicking and clacking and pulling, but he gets there.

Despite his frailty, he awakes each morning relishing the possibilities. He dances and licks my dozing face, and barks, “Get up! Oh my GOD! Can you believe this? Can you believe our LUCK??! It’s a DAY!! A DAY!!!”

Aren’t dogs the best?
 
DeepGreenEyes said:
My buddy is getting old, and becoming sicker. He takes - or rather, submits to - pills each morning and evening to keep him going. He hates these pills, and disdains my attempts to conceal them with peanut butter.

While he keeps surprising me with his ability to rally, it’s clear that he will leave me before too long. He can barely see. His tummy is frequently upset. He wobbles. Since climbing stairs requires him to expend considerable time and effort, I built a little ramp to give him more independence. It takes a lot of clicking and clacking and pulling, but he gets there.

Despite his frailty, he awakes each morning relishing the possibilities. He dances and licks my dozing face, and barks, “Get up! Oh my GOD! Can you believe this? Can you believe our LUCK??! It’s a DAY!! A DAY!!!”

Aren’t dogs the best?
Click to expand...

:heart:
 
Dogs live in the moment, no worrys about yesterday or tomorrow,
 
Thank you for sharing that DeepGreenEyes. It sincerely touched me, in a lot of ways.

And I should probably stop there. But, there is a story that needs to come out of me, I think. One I have never shared before, not with anyone. And I think it is your story of your old, frail friend that unlocked it.

You see, my pretty girl is only eight years old this past March. And that doesn't seem very old. But, it so happens that I know quite a bit about dogs. And I know that we will be extremely lucky if that is only the halfway point since she is a large breed. And, from time to time, especially since last October, it hits me that someday, sooner than I want to, I will be holding her head in my lap as she breathes her last breath. I know it's ridiculous to go mourning something that hasn't happened yet. But, I think, too, in a way it's a good thing. Because it keeps me from taking her for granted in the meantime.

But, the thing is... Well, in a way, my life is bound up with hers. I've shared and perhaps overshared, that Daisy Mae is pretty much the reason I didn't turn my face to the wall and wait for death from October until February. And I've hinted elsewhere that Daisy Mae was much more responsible for me coming back from being diagnosed with Parkinson's.

What I haven't shared before now, not with anyone anywhere, is that Daisy also stopped me from committing suicide, quite literally, before she was even a year old.

I won't go into why I had gone down that dark path. Nor will I discuss the reasons behind why I went to such an elaborate plan versus something simpler and much surer such as a bullet in the brain. Much less why I didn't discuss what I was feeling with anyone that led me there.

But, it was a cold night in the tail end of winter. I remember that much because it was part of my elaborate plan. I already wasn't feeling hungry or thirsty any more. I hadn't eaten any food in over a week, closer to two. And I had not allowed any liquid to touch my lips for at least three days. Perhaps longer.

It was the deep of the night, the wee hours of the morning, and it was cold. Very cold. The coldest moment of the night in the coldest month of the year that I could manage without a crystal ball. I took Daisy outside. Ostensibly so that she could use the bathroom.


And I sat down in my chair that I always sat in while we were out there.


Nothing could look odd, you see.


I closed my eyes. And I guess I must have drifted off to sleep, just like I'd planned.

Because the next thing I knew there was a sharp pain in my hand and that damn dog was doing her best to try to drag me out of my chair with her teeth clamped on my hand.


I didn't want to. I really just couldn't even express how very much I didn't want to. But, I allowed her to half drag, half coax me up out of that chair and back inside.


I don't know how much of it was real and how much imagined, but I sort of have fuzzy memories (all puns intended) of her curled around my head for the rest of the night as I slept on the couch. And occasionally nipping my nose and licking my face.


The next morning, I woke to find the sun shining cheerily, and my wife thumping around in the kitchen, making an unholy racket as she made her coffee.


I took Daisy Mae outside.


Love stuck her head out and chewed my ass for being outside with snow on the ground in nothing but a pair of boxer briefs.

I never did tell her why I broke down in hard tears and sobs later that same day.


Daisy Mae, of course, licked away my tears.


The running joke for several years was that Love believed that I fought my way back for that damn dog more than for her.


I never revealed to anyone why that joke made me so uncomfortable. Until now.


Any road, DSG, my long-winded (as usual) point (as much as I ever have one) is that you are absolutely right. Dogs are something special. And, yes. You are right.

"It's a DAY! Get up! Oh, my God, can you believe our luck?! It's a day! And we get to spend it together, me and you!"
 
PuckIt said:
Thank you for sharing that DeepGreenEyes. It sincerely touched me, in a lot of ways.

And I should probably stop there. But, there is a story that needs to come out of me, I think. One I have never shared before, not with anyone. And I think it is your story of your old, frail friend that unlocked it.

You see, my pretty girl is only eight years old this past March. And that doesn't seem very old. But, it so happens that I know quite a bit about dogs. And I know that we will be extremely lucky if that is only the halfway point since she is a large breed. And, from time to time, especially since last October, it hits me that someday, sooner than I want to, I will be holding her head in my lap as she breathes her last breath. I know it's ridiculous to go mourning something that hasn't happened yet. But, I think, too, in a way it's a good thing. Because it keeps me from taking her for granted in the meantime.

But, the thing is... Well, in a way, my life is bound up with hers. I've shared and perhaps overshared, that Daisy Mae is pretty much the reason I didn't turn my face to the wall and wait for death from October until February. And I've hinted elsewhere that Daisy Mae was much more responsible for me coming back from being diagnosed with Parkinson's.

What I haven't shared before now, not with anyone anywhere, is that Daisy also stopped me from committing suicide, quite literally, before she was even a year old.

I won't go into why I had gone down that dark path. Nor will I discuss the reasons behind why I went to such an elaborate plan versus something simpler and much surer such as a bullet in the brain. Much less why I didn't discuss what I was feeling with anyone that led me there.

But, it was a cold night in the tail end of winter. I remember that much because it was part of my elaborate plan. I already wasn't feeling hungry or thirsty any more. I hadn't eaten any food in over a week, closer to two. And I had not allowed any liquid to touch my lips for at least three days. Perhaps longer.

It was the deep of the night, the wee hours of the morning, and it was cold. Very cold. The coldest moment of the night in the coldest month of the year that I could manage without a crystal ball. I took Daisy outside. Ostensibly so that she could use the bathroom.


And I sat down in my chair that I always sat in while we were out there.


Nothing could look odd, you see.


I closed my eyes. And I guess I must have drifted off to sleep, just like I'd planned.

Because the next thing I knew there was a sharp pain in my hand and that damn dog was doing her best to try to drag me out of my chair with her teeth clamped on my hand.


I didn't want to. I really just couldn't even express how very much I didn't want to. But, I allowed her to half drag, half coax me up out of that chair and back inside.


I don't know how much of it was real and how much imagined, but I sort of have fuzzy memories (all puns intended) of her curled around my head for the rest of the night as I slept on the couch. And occasionally nipping my nose and licking my face.


The next morning, I woke to find the sun shining cheerily, and my wife thumping around in the kitchen, making an unholy racket as she made her coffee.


I took Daisy Mae outside.


Love stuck her head out and chewed my ass for being outside with snow on the ground in nothing but a pair of boxer briefs.

I never did tell her why I broke down in hard tears and sobs later that same day.


Daisy Mae, of course, licked away my tears.


The running joke for several years was that Love believed that I fought my way back for that damn dog more than for her.


I never revealed to anyone why that joke made me so uncomfortable. Until now.


Any road, DSG, my long-winded (as usual) point (as much as I ever have one) is that you are absolutely right. Dogs are something special. And, yes. You are right.

"It's a DAY! Get up! Oh, my God, can you believe our luck?! It's a day! And we get to spend it together, me and you!"
Click to expand...

:heart:
 
DeepGreenEyes said:
My buddy is getting old, and becoming sicker. He takes - or rather, submits to - pills each morning and evening to keep him going. He hates these pills, and disdains my attempts to conceal them with peanut butter.

While he keeps surprising me with his ability to rally, it’s clear that he will leave me before too long. He can barely see. His tummy is frequently upset. He wobbles. Since climbing stairs requires him to expend considerable time and effort, I built a little ramp to give him more independence. It takes a lot of clicking and clacking and pulling, but he gets there.

Despite his frailty, he awakes each morning relishing the possibilities. He dances and licks my dozing face, and barks, “Get up! Oh my GOD! Can you believe this? Can you believe our LUCK??! It’s a DAY!! A DAY!!!”

Aren’t dogs the best?
Click to expand...

Aww. I still miss my old dog. He was a lovely gentle soul.
 
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