Many years ago, our cat Cheeseball was hit by a car.
As I struggled to the vet, pregnant, with two toddlers in tow, I scowled at my husband:
“We will not be one of those crazy pet families. I’m not spending a single dollar on saving this cat. Do you hear me? If he’s gotta go, he’s gotta go.”
Makes you feel all warm and fuzzy inside, eh?
At the vet all those years ago, I herded the kids and hurting Cheeseball into the examining room. Ten minutes later, I had the vet by the lab coat:
“DO WHATEVER IT TAKES. SAVE HIM, DO YOU HEAR ME? SAVE CHEESEBALL.”
And they did.
Good old Cheeseball lived a long and full life, died a happy little feline surrounded by a family who loved him, including a kinder, gentler crazy pet crazy me.
I share this because we put down our 10 year old Bernese Mountain Dog, named Bernie, not for the breed, but for Yankee center fielder Bernie Williams.
In October, the vet said BernDog had 1-3 months to live, and I’ve been prepping rather attractive husband, three teens and a tween ever since. Once we heard the diagnosis, we fed him lots of bacon, and let him sleep on the couch all the time. Any time.
Didn’t make it any easier.
I took him in, and the vet did whatever she could to make him as comfortable as possible. And Bernie was grateful, I could see it in his eyes as I held him close and whispered goodbye.
Lots of people write about losing a pet, and I’m not going to be one of those pet crazy bloggers. Not me. Not today.