I babble, because I need to.
Ashley's here. All's well with that, I suppose.
Except. Except that Sunday, Dad called me up, said, You might want to come over. Your dog is sick. She's stopped eating, and she throws up if we put canned food anywhere near her, and I've managed to get her to keep some pork roast down, so far, but that's it. I think this may be it.
Heard from the vet yesterday. The blood test showed that she was in the late stages of kidney failure. There was nothing to be done. Dad said that he was taking her in to be put down, this morning. I can only presume he did. I'm sort of afraid to call and ask.
Tilly was fourteen. The average lifespan of a border collie is eleven. She had a good life. In the last few years she'd become increasingly arthritic, developed cataracts, and was probably a bit deaf, but she was still as sharp as she ever was, mentally. She was, up to the end, lucid, and comfortable if quite weak.
My dad said, at one point, that we must seem immortal, to dogs.
I did snap a picture.
I am ridiculously irritated by the fact that I have an icon with Tilly, in happier days, but my paid account expired a bit ago, and I didn't notice, and Paypal needs a day or two to process my money before I can spend it. Just imagine this up at the top, then.
There's a voice in my head that keeps saying she was only a dog, get over it. But I was a shy and weird kid, and most of my peers wanted nothing to do with me. She was my best friend from the age of ten to the age of sixteen, more or less.
She slept on my bed through most of high school, knowing full well that it wasn't allowed, and quickly slipping off if anyone came down the stairs. She liked cherry pie and hated peas. She once caught a squirrel by sitting and pretending to ignore it until it foolishly came too close. She would climb--not jump, but climb--fences. She figured out how to open the latch on the gate, somehow, and would trot out to the front yard to sit there--she was never really inclined to wander. She was smart.
I hurt.
Except. Except that Sunday, Dad called me up, said, You might want to come over. Your dog is sick. She's stopped eating, and she throws up if we put canned food anywhere near her, and I've managed to get her to keep some pork roast down, so far, but that's it. I think this may be it.
Heard from the vet yesterday. The blood test showed that she was in the late stages of kidney failure. There was nothing to be done. Dad said that he was taking her in to be put down, this morning. I can only presume he did. I'm sort of afraid to call and ask.
Tilly was fourteen. The average lifespan of a border collie is eleven. She had a good life. In the last few years she'd become increasingly arthritic, developed cataracts, and was probably a bit deaf, but she was still as sharp as she ever was, mentally. She was, up to the end, lucid, and comfortable if quite weak.
My dad said, at one point, that we must seem immortal, to dogs.
I did snap a picture.
I am ridiculously irritated by the fact that I have an icon with Tilly, in happier days, but my paid account expired a bit ago, and I didn't notice, and Paypal needs a day or two to process my money before I can spend it. Just imagine this up at the top, then.
There's a voice in my head that keeps saying she was only a dog, get over it. But I was a shy and weird kid, and most of my peers wanted nothing to do with me. She was my best friend from the age of ten to the age of sixteen, more or less.
She slept on my bed through most of high school, knowing full well that it wasn't allowed, and quickly slipping off if anyone came down the stairs. She liked cherry pie and hated peas. She once caught a squirrel by sitting and pretending to ignore it until it foolishly came too close. She would climb--not jump, but climb--fences. She figured out how to open the latch on the gate, somehow, and would trot out to the front yard to sit there--she was never really inclined to wander. She was smart.
I hurt.