Puppies should never die. And when they do die, it should be of old age and in their sleep. Let's just make that statement for animals in general. Humans. Everyone!
I'm having a hard time picking an emotion.
One minute I'm solemn and straightforward and glad that Misha, my parent's old Yorkshire Terrier, is off in heaven with fully restored eyesight, hearing, and a nice shiny coat of hair. The next I'm making inappropriate jokes about how I'm sad that he didn't get a chance to meet Odin or Mor'du but the shock of that meeting really might've killed him anyway.
Though I guess that would be better than drowning.
And then I'm stuck in tears thinking about my poor parents having to find him that way. My dad sent out an email Sunday morning to close friends and family, those who knew Misha and his effect on our family. He'd been with us for over 14 years and during those 14 years was never very far from my Mom's side. If she was at home, he was attached to her. I immediately called my mom's cell and my heart broke when her shaky voice answered. She put me on with my dad and he started out with much bravado and claims of how much trouble and time and effort Misha was and how they didn't want another dog but it wasn't long before he broke down as well.
It's been a long time since I heard my father cry like that.
My mom kept repeating that really, they were okay, and she's just so grateful for the example of pure love that Misha was and how much he taught her. He was a very special dog to our family. The one and only dog we've ever had.
I can easily remember the adorable way he used to pick up his plastic food plate (nicked from a toy tea set I had because he was that small as a pup) and bring it to the dinner table when we as a family sat down to eat a meal.
The bizarre and crazed look he had when he came inside from a strenuous gallop through the snow banks in our frozen backyard in Utah, with weird packed balls of snow caked into his fur.
His never ending testosterone war with the neighbor's huge, black lab. Talk about a Napoleon Complex.
His tuft of Elvis hair that swooped over his eyes in different shapes as we played tug of war when he tossed his head back and forth.
The hilarious way his tiny feet would scramble furiously, and ineffectively, over the wooden floor as he tried to chase the cats through the house.
And of course, the funny way he waddled with his diaper on, bald leathery skin sagging, and graying hair sticking out in crazy angles as he suddenly became so old in his last days. It's strange how love really does overcome appearances.
He deserved a wonderful, peaceful death and it honestly just breaks my heart and brings me to tears that he had to leave suffering.
Dogs are special. Pets are special. They're just genuinely special creatures and it's terrible when they have to go, regardless of how they go. I'm grateful I have my own furbabes to hold extra tight to for this transition period.
I'm not sure how to finish this post. I don't think I want to.
How do you end something that is an end itself?
Puppies should never die.