(no subject)
For years, I have been telling my parents that our oldest dog, Pooch, needed to be examined. One of his front legs is completely backwards, due to him being born with more physical defects than I can think of, and I had wanted to see if there was any sort of medication we could put him on to ease the strain of it, because the leg is bent in such a way that it's painful to put too much weight on it. Not to mention the fact that he's incredibly frail in the first place. I brought up the possibility of surgery a few times. But they just told me everytime I asked that I was being silly, and that the dog was just fine, and that his leg didn't hurt him a bit, amd that he was as strong as he needed to be.
When I was picked up from the bus this afternoon, a certain male parental unit informed me that Pooch wouldn't walk this morning, and in the event that he did, he would drag his back legs behind him, and struggle with having his full weight on the deformed leg. It's almost funny that it would take complete paralyzation for you-know-who to consider taking him to the vet. So he did. And the vet says that Pooch has either had a stroke, or has slipped a disc. They're keeping him overnight, and if the steroid they're going to give him doesn't work, they'll have to put him down.
Heh. Thanks, pops. You were right, just like you always claim to be. The dog is just fine. How silly of me to worry.
I think I want Pooch to die. I'm just tired of seeing him in pain all the time. And I don't know too much about animal contentment, but I know that he's not a happy dog. Ten years, in my opinion, is long enough for having to put up with that much pain.
Ugh. I'm shutting up now. I'm going to go work and be ignorantly jolly and cheerful. And keep myself occupied with thoughts of things like flowers and hearts and butterflies and fluffy clouds shaped like bunny rabbits. Otherwise, I'll sharpen my teeth on the drapes. Or something.
When I was picked up from the bus this afternoon, a certain male parental unit informed me that Pooch wouldn't walk this morning, and in the event that he did, he would drag his back legs behind him, and struggle with having his full weight on the deformed leg. It's almost funny that it would take complete paralyzation for you-know-who to consider taking him to the vet. So he did. And the vet says that Pooch has either had a stroke, or has slipped a disc. They're keeping him overnight, and if the steroid they're going to give him doesn't work, they'll have to put him down.
Heh. Thanks, pops. You were right, just like you always claim to be. The dog is just fine. How silly of me to worry.
I think I want Pooch to die. I'm just tired of seeing him in pain all the time. And I don't know too much about animal contentment, but I know that he's not a happy dog. Ten years, in my opinion, is long enough for having to put up with that much pain.
Ugh. I'm shutting up now. I'm going to go work and be ignorantly jolly and cheerful. And keep myself occupied with thoughts of things like flowers and hearts and butterflies and fluffy clouds shaped like bunny rabbits. Otherwise, I'll sharpen my teeth on the drapes. Or something.