The hardest thing about putting Bro down was that, if only I didn’t have M.S., he might have had several more years left in him. Whether he was in pain or not is not entirely clear to me. If he was, he was very stoic about it, as dogs sometimes are. But I was totally incapable of caring for him.
As most of you are aware, Bro only had three legs. He lost his right rear leg to surgery to stop a cancer in January of this year. The Dr. only gave him six months to live at the time. That he had shown no indication of infirmary in the 10 months since the operation led us to think maybe he had no need to lose it in the first place. It had broken in a slip on a wood floor, but the x-ray had shown signs of cancer, so we took it off. But he never developed illness.
As my M.S. developed, though, he had less and less exercise. I used to take him for walks with my three wheeled bicycle, but had not done so for at least the last two months. I had fallen putting the bike away and have been reluctant to get back on it since. I have to get over that.
Barbara, who had been putting him on the run for his bathroom duty, had gone to Hawaii when he started having an inability to use the remaining back leg, so I was alone with him. Unfortunately, the only way to get him out for bathroom relief was beyond my abilities. I could no longer put him on the run. For a number of days, he remained in the house, despite having no option to go outside ad thus no chance at an acceptable bathroom break.
Not his fault, but it was quite a mess. Friends later cleaned it up, and I have no idea what I’d have done without their help.
But I was the one that decided to kill him.
I have never been so aware of what the implications of having M.S. are.
Also, several items come to mind as side-benefits. One has to do with the simple fact that one can die as a complication of a non-fatal disease in a different person. Perhaps it would be better to just observe that you can be killed over it, whether you are a person or not, since that is what happened in this case. Another is the fact that I get a little touchy in this situation.
So what is going on here? I suppose I’m just feeling sorry for myself. Bro’s ashes sit on a table with a picture of a man and his dog taking a walk staring out at me. I suspect that my sorrow should rest more with Bro than with me. All I really know is that I miss him.
He never complained. Not even when he was justified. Like Barbara’s cat does, for instance. I’m not criticizing Barbara or her cat, mind you. Well, not very much. I’ve always been allergic to cats, so I’ve never gotten close to any of them. Not until Katin, at least. Katin is Barbara’s cat, and I don’t seem to be allergic to him. Maybe I’ve finally just outgrown it.
At any rate, Barbara has been without a cat as long as she has been with me because of my allergies. She got Katin during our separation and I’m very glad she did. Not only does she love him, but I’m glad to have him around too. They say people live longer who have pets, and I believe it. We need our pets. Love has never shortened lives. At least that’s not the general rule.
Why, though, do our most significant pets live so short a time? That seems like a very significant flaw in the overall plan. It may even be one of the most glaring flaws in the argument for an intelligent creator. Why would an intelligent, caring for humans, god do this? I just don’t get it.
He was the only dog Ive ever had who would stop licking when told to. He lived to please.
Rationality lets me off every time. Bro’s time had come. He‘d never have lived forever. I couldn’t care for him myself any longer. What kind of life would it have been for him without hind legs, anyway? Sooner or later, it was bound to come to this.
Still, I miss him, and I killed him.