Ready or Not

     You tell yourself you will be ready. Fifteen years ago we brought home a puppy. Garth is a mutt, or more politically correct, mixed breed, very mixed breed, but looks mostly like a small black lab with curly hair. He grew to be a 50 pound dog and, as such, according to the veterinary charts, we could expect him to live about 12 years.  Fifteen years ago that sounded like a long time. We walked many a mile together, going to and from the island. And he had a regular route through the neighborhood where he knew he could get pets and dog treats. His legs are not strong enough to make it to the island now, even a walk to the bridge leaves him raspy and gasping.  A tossed treat is no longer enticement enough to get off the floor, although he will stretch his tongue a long ways to reach one. But he still dutifully follows us from room to room in the house. We tell him not to, but he has never been particularly obedient and is now deaf.  When he first became deaf, he looked embarrassed to be caught sleeping when I came home unexpectedly but, in whatever way animals keep track of our schedules, when we come home at our usual times, he is awake and watching out the window to make up for not hearing the garage door. One benefit of his deafness is that he doesn't bark every time friend, foe or family come to the door but, when he does, it's a muted, deaf sounding bark. He no longer bursts through the dog door when I pull into the garage because his hind legs collapse going through it and on the wood floor of the laundry room to get to it.  He mostly stays on the carpet. And sometimes, even there, he scoots with his front legs until his hind legs are strong enough to put him upright. Someday, he will not be able to get them up at all.  That is the day when the companionship of having a pet becomes the sorrowful stewardship of saying good bye and putting him down.
     At our house that involves a quick shot to the base of the skull because, however gentle the vet may be, he is terrified of the vet's office and I don't want him to spend his last moments on earth afraid. But as long as he is not in pain, enjoys his food and can get in and out of the house, we do not care about the "no longer" part. We have seen this coming for a year now, known it for 15 years. You tell yourself you will be ready . . somehow, magically, you will be ready. But you never are.