Creek Running North

Very moving. My thoughts are with you guys. Hugs from me and nips from the boston terrier in my life.

I’ve never met you or your dog, but this has me in tears. I want to hug Zeke and put soothing warm things on his owie joints.  My beloved dog (a labrador named Abigail) left my life nearly ten years ago at the ripe old age of fourteen, and I know exactly what you mean by what you would trade for him.  It’s a cruel fact that we outlive our animals, whom we love like our children and who depend on us even more.

Give Zeke a hug and a scritch from a perfect stranger on the internet.  He’s a good dog.

My memory may be playing tricks with me, but I think one of the first huge cracks in my Christian faith (such as it was - I was 9 or 10) was learning that dogs didn’t have souls and couldn’t go to heaven. If they don’t have souls, nobody does. And Heaven without dogs? Fuck that noise. Let me romp in the fields of Hades, or wherever, with them.

Aw, Chris.  I’m so sorry. 

This is where I’m at this week with my last cat.  I have a list of those visiting vets still crumpled in my pocket from his last vet visit ever, which happened Monday.

I haven’t left the house in two days, and though I’m looking for a new job, I’m trying really hard not to find one too soon because I’m still needed here, needed to pick him up when he wants to sit in a sunny window, to gently lift him down when he wants to totter off somewhere else, to taxi him about when he can’t quite do the tottering on his own, and to just sit and stroke him for hours.  We can’t make the phone call until he’s actually suffering, not just tired and feeble.  We can’t make the call while he can still purr in the sun and while he still asks us to help him do it.

I am not just saying it when I tell you I feel for you, with you.  Really.  This fucking sucks.  And I wish I had something to offer you besides sympathy and virtual hugs and scritchies (as appropriate).  But I don’t, so I have to offer those.

Best wishes for as gentle an outcome as possible.

Nothing in the world like the love of a good dog.

Te amo, tío, y el te ama también, y sabe que tú le amas. Es todo lo que podemos querer, ¿no? Nadar en un mar de amor, del nacimiento hasta la oscuridad final. (O el fin brillante, ¿quien sabe?) Y eso es lo que tuvo nuestro chiquito querido. No importa, yo sé. Pero todavía la verdad.

My heart breaks with yours, Chris. I’m so sorry, and glad for each day more.

My comment to the last post was “Please.” I meant, “Please, let there be some more time for you together with him.” And the “you” is interchangeable with the “him.” I don’t really know you, we’ve never met, but please know that I understand every word of your post and that my heart is breaking for you.

I am so sorry.

My heart goes out to Zeke and y’all.

Love,

Hanna

I would like to visit Zeke. I really love him.

“He is just a dog in a world of more important things, and I do not care. I would trade my sight to clear his eyes, my legs to make his whole. I would trade thirty years of my life for one more painless year for him, one more chance to run along a trail eyes shining.”

If there’s a better description of what it’s like to love someone (and Zeke is *definitely* a “someone"), I haven’t seen it.

It does little good, but my love to you and Zeke.

I cannot even read what you are going through without tears for you. I’ve been through this not a few times and there is no cure for the loss or the regret for lost opportunities. It might help to remember that it is Zeke’s evaluation of the love between you that is important here. I’ve read a lot that you have written about your life with Zeke and I’d have a hard time coming up w/some reason to think he found your love for him lacking.
My terrier MacGuffin still shows up 3 years after holding him in my lap in the front yard while the vet helped him out of his pain. Three years and out of the corner of my eye he still shows up, checking in, checking on me. The loss is profound and permanent. I am so sorry.

Not one more bad thing. I don’t think I can take it.  (Sorry, I do actually know this isn’t about me.  Nevertheless… *sniff*)

Sending strength…

Chris, my heart goes out to you and Zeke. I would say stay strong, but damnit, it’s hard to be strong during times like this.

And that’s ok.

Much love.

I know it’s really hard, right now, to think about the things you did RIGHT. For some reason it is just human to think of your failings at this time. But please try to remember all the hikes he DID go on, all the times he had your undivided attention, and remember too that the times you were busy, you were earning the money to put a roof over his head, gas in the car (to get you TO the trailhead), and dogfood in the bowl. I think THEY understand these things.

And don’t forget to think what his life might have been WITHOUT you. The contrast between his pre-rescue life, and the alternate life he actually LIVES with you and Becky is so vast. Don’t forget that part of the picture.

The pain of saying goodbye is overwhelming. You both have my deepest sympathy.

I’ve seen more than one cat off to the Elysian Fields.  Yes, I never stop missing them; never stop thinking I see them out of the corner of my eye, hear them in the quiet of the night.  When I’m half-asleep and feel a cat walking up the bed towards me, I often wonder for a fuddled moment whether it’s one of my living kitties or one of my sweet, sweet ghosts.  When I think seriously about an afterlife, I find I want the best one for them more than I want it for me.

I’ll echo what others have said.

Never ever doubt that Zeke knows he’s been loved every minute of every day he’s lived with you.  Never ever doubt that he knows he’s been valued as much as he’s been loved - which, with dogs, counts just as much if not more.  He has mattered for more than lovies and adventure: he has saved you and Becky; he has done his dogly duty to protect and strengthen his pack, and he’s been champion at it.

To a baby-faced dog.

xxoo

Ah!  I am so sorry that you have to go through that. 

I’ve been dealing with my own pet issues.  My little Quaker Parakeet, Wicket, has been picking his feathers for many years.  But now, it has gotten worse, as he has started picking at himself.  Quite scary.  I found a good support forum online, which helps.  I was considering having to put him down, but the group has been helping me out with trying to deal with it in other ways first.  I tried Haliperidol last month to see if it would calm him down and stop his picking, but it had no effect.

So now, I’m going to try another drug out..and get a ‘bird collar’.  I hope that something helps this, otherwise I will have to put him down and he’s only 12 yrs old (Quakers can live for 30 or so years) I will keep on trying different meds till one works for him.

Carolyn :-(

Oh, Chris, I’m so sorry. My thoughts are with you and Becky and Zeke.

I made the phone call four years ago now, after 19 years with my cat. When the vet arrived at our house, I wanted to slam the door in her kindly face. Damn, it’s hard, even when you know it’s time.

I have no words for you, except that I’m thinking of you & your wonderful pup-pup, Zeke.

Oh. Man.

So very sorry to hear it.

When it was time for my old dog Painter, my vet arranged to do it in the back seat of our car. We drove to his office.  Even after her last very difficult night, Painter perked up a little when we took her out to the car, because she was going for a ride, and rides were full of possibilities.

No way to make this easy for you, but know that many of us have gone down the road before you and Zeke. 

Peace to you and yours.

I just had to bury a rat.  I tried to avoid any of the other animal graves (all marked with flat rocks), but brought up a cat skull, Yorick-fashion.

I don’t know if it was Butler, or Sugar, or maybe even Ollie, who died before I met my wife.  No matter.  The skull went into the hole alongside Ratzilla.

And all of a sudden I’m glad we haven’t kept a dog in nearly twenty years.