One month ago
I was clearing out some of the messages and photos in my phone's archives, and I found this. Well, I found many photos of Rocky, but a look at the date that this was taken on gave me a little shock.
Here is Rocky in the waiting room of the vet's on July 8, terrorising some pup. What a difference a day makes, huh. I never even stopped to consider the time span in which everything took place. I mean, he was having trouble with his throat, yes, but he was still running around on all fours. And I realise how unhealthy this is, but for the first time, I can't help but wonder if I made the wrong decision. I know, I know, it doesn't matter now -- except that it does to me.
After we left the vet's, I went swimming. I knew I was going to be crying. Those of you who've done this before know that hours of crying is extremely tiring -- the eyes and face become tender from wiping away those tears; it's just a horrible feeling to add to all the worry and doubt. I thought that swimming would be a good distraction, plus I could cry while swimming and wouldn't have to care about the tears; no one would know, too.
Goggles were a huge oversight (pun not intended).
***
The phone call came. My mom and sis were in the room. I stopped towelling my wet hair, and the three of us exchanged knowing glances.
I answered the phone, and she broke the news. It's strange how you have this day pegged at the back of your mind -- you always know that someday... But when the words actually come out of the doctor's mouth, giving someone -- the love of your life -- a deadline, in the most literal sense of the word, I can't explain it. Suddenly there are so many things that you want to do all at once; scream, cry, turn back the time, spend every waking moment with him.
"Okay," I nodded, as if she could've seen. "I understand."
"Meanwhile, you can bring him home anytime from 6 PM tonight," the vet said gently.
"Okay," I nodded again.
I hung up, and I didn't even have to say anything -- my mom and sis already knew. We cried, and occasionally, someone would say something sensible like, "It's okay, he's had a long, good life," like it made everything better, but it didn't. I said it a couple of times too, I think. It didn't.
***
If I didn't have an idea of just how grave the situation was, I knew it the moment I saw Rocky in his cage when we went to pick him up that evening. No matter how weak he got in the past, just seeing us would have him climbing to stand on all fours. Even after that first surgery -- where the best he could do was wobble on those weakened limbs -- he stood up, wagged his tail, and threw himself into our arms.
This time, though, he laid motionless in the cage. Even as I called his name, and stroked the length of his body, he didn't budge; there wasn't even so much as a twitch in that tail of his -- his happiness indicator.
I carefully took him into my arms and cradled him in the car ride home. My baby.
He never stood to walk again; he never wagged his tail again. That photo of him in the waiting room? That was the last time he did all those things.
Here is Rocky in the waiting room of the vet's on July 8, terrorising some pup. What a difference a day makes, huh. I never even stopped to consider the time span in which everything took place. I mean, he was having trouble with his throat, yes, but he was still running around on all fours. And I realise how unhealthy this is, but for the first time, I can't help but wonder if I made the wrong decision. I know, I know, it doesn't matter now -- except that it does to me.
After we left the vet's, I went swimming. I knew I was going to be crying. Those of you who've done this before know that hours of crying is extremely tiring -- the eyes and face become tender from wiping away those tears; it's just a horrible feeling to add to all the worry and doubt. I thought that swimming would be a good distraction, plus I could cry while swimming and wouldn't have to care about the tears; no one would know, too.
Goggles were a huge oversight (pun not intended).
***
The phone call came. My mom and sis were in the room. I stopped towelling my wet hair, and the three of us exchanged knowing glances.
I answered the phone, and she broke the news. It's strange how you have this day pegged at the back of your mind -- you always know that someday... But when the words actually come out of the doctor's mouth, giving someone -- the love of your life -- a deadline, in the most literal sense of the word, I can't explain it. Suddenly there are so many things that you want to do all at once; scream, cry, turn back the time, spend every waking moment with him.
"Okay," I nodded, as if she could've seen. "I understand."
"Meanwhile, you can bring him home anytime from 6 PM tonight," the vet said gently.
"Okay," I nodded again.
I hung up, and I didn't even have to say anything -- my mom and sis already knew. We cried, and occasionally, someone would say something sensible like, "It's okay, he's had a long, good life," like it made everything better, but it didn't. I said it a couple of times too, I think. It didn't.
***
If I didn't have an idea of just how grave the situation was, I knew it the moment I saw Rocky in his cage when we went to pick him up that evening. No matter how weak he got in the past, just seeing us would have him climbing to stand on all fours. Even after that first surgery -- where the best he could do was wobble on those weakened limbs -- he stood up, wagged his tail, and threw himself into our arms.
This time, though, he laid motionless in the cage. Even as I called his name, and stroked the length of his body, he didn't budge; there wasn't even so much as a twitch in that tail of his -- his happiness indicator.
I carefully took him into my arms and cradled him in the car ride home. My baby.
He never stood to walk again; he never wagged his tail again. That photo of him in the waiting room? That was the last time he did all those things.
posted by Laughingcow at 10:09 am
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