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We had a decent holiday, all things considered. Everyone got what they wanted under the tree. I still managed to cook a couple of nice meals. Life goes on...
It's so hard, though. I expect to see him on the couch, or in the bed. Last night, I walked into my bedroom and my robe was lying on the bed. In the dark, it looked like Navarre. My heart leaped into my throat and then I realized he wasn't here. I am so ANGRY. I'm angry because I KNEW there was something wrong in his brain and it wasn't treated. Logically, I know that if it was a brain tumor, or an aneurysm or a series of strokes, it couldn't be treated. Even if surgery was an option, I'd not have put him through that.
I'm trying so hard to put my last glimpse of him out of my mind, and see him as he usually was. I don't want to remember that screaming, absent, flailing mess that I saw. I want to remember him as the goofy snugglebug that yelled at us if we were out past his curfew (which was whatever he decided it was). I want to remember his sleepy face, as he'd look at me from under the covers.
We're already considering adopting another dog. It's not going against his memory to adopt so soon...he'd want us to take in another homeless and scared pibble. To be honest, I NEED to have someone to lavish my attention on when Will and Liana are at school and work. I can't be here by myself all day long.
It just...doesn't make sense. He was so healthy. Even in the throes of his illness, the vets were amazed at what great shape he was in for an older dog. He wasn't even 7 years old, and looked like he was 3. It feels as if the animals I bond closest to are taken away from me halfway into their life cycle. Pan was 8 when he died. Navarre was 6. Am I doomed to lose my loves early? It certainly feels like that.
Argh. Enough of this rambling.
It's so hard, though. I expect to see him on the couch, or in the bed. Last night, I walked into my bedroom and my robe was lying on the bed. In the dark, it looked like Navarre. My heart leaped into my throat and then I realized he wasn't here. I am so ANGRY. I'm angry because I KNEW there was something wrong in his brain and it wasn't treated. Logically, I know that if it was a brain tumor, or an aneurysm or a series of strokes, it couldn't be treated. Even if surgery was an option, I'd not have put him through that.
I'm trying so hard to put my last glimpse of him out of my mind, and see him as he usually was. I don't want to remember that screaming, absent, flailing mess that I saw. I want to remember him as the goofy snugglebug that yelled at us if we were out past his curfew (which was whatever he decided it was). I want to remember his sleepy face, as he'd look at me from under the covers.
We're already considering adopting another dog. It's not going against his memory to adopt so soon...he'd want us to take in another homeless and scared pibble. To be honest, I NEED to have someone to lavish my attention on when Will and Liana are at school and work. I can't be here by myself all day long.
It just...doesn't make sense. He was so healthy. Even in the throes of his illness, the vets were amazed at what great shape he was in for an older dog. He wasn't even 7 years old, and looked like he was 3. It feels as if the animals I bond closest to are taken away from me halfway into their life cycle. Pan was 8 when he died. Navarre was 6. Am I doomed to lose my loves early? It certainly feels like that.
Argh. Enough of this rambling.
