D-Day

Yes, really.

I am seriously starting to hate that pink syringe at the Vet's.

For the second time in less than six weeks, we had to put down one of our dogs. Dover was suffering immensely from rapid onset kidney failure. He was around 10 years old.

We got him in Colorado Springs in 2002; Ainsley offered to anonymously foster him at our place while his owner was admitted to a home for abused spouses, but the lady's case was so severe that they let her stay more than the usual 8 weeks ... by the time she got out, she'd decided that whoever was fostering Dover had had him longer than she had, so she asked Ainsley to check with the owners to see if they wanted to adopt him. Griffin and Bailey said yes. Besides, his color matched.

Dover was the 'safe' dog. Loud when he wanted to be, susceptible to bee stings that made him swell up and look like Winnie the Pooh, but he didn't need the electric fence (though he was the first to find a hole in the real one) and would have been happy his whole life just lying down next to someone or another dog.

He was in so much distress it was again morbidly easy to make the decision, but it was so different from Bailey. With her, we knew her time was coming, knew the meds weren't working, and planned it out for a particular day, knowing this was her last time walking down the back steps, this was the last time she'd be in our back yard, etc. For Dover, I went to work stupid and happy and by 3:30 got a call from the Vet saying words like "chronic" and "severe" and "walking on the edge".
Hell, is there ever a good time?

So now it seems silly about Dad coming over to help "walk dog." And Griffin seems to be consciously acting on his best behavior, folding his napkin after dinner, sticking out a paw when I open the door to let him out and going, "No, no, after you." and refusing to get anywhere near a car. "No, no, I'm good. In fact, can I mow the lawn for you?"

G'night, Dover Doodles. Thanks for hanging with us for a bit.