My husband was out of town all last week, just in time for me to catch my annual cold. My heart goes out to single parents everywhere. There is no time to rest or recuperate when one has a two-year-old on the loose.
Guess what I've cooked this week? Nothing. The kitchen has stayed nice and tidy; a bit of a welcome change that is. Thanks to scurvy-preventing multivitamins, my kids are subsisting on mac-n-cheese and Annie's Cheddar Bunnies.
Onto the reason I can hardly crawl out of bed...my heart has been dreading tomorrow for the past 10 days.
Our family dog, Harriet, has to be put down. I will be there with her, rubbing the white patch on her belly until she is gone. We know it's the best thing to do in this situation, but my goodness, I am an emotional wreck. It hurts so badly. The dread is making my blood feel like motor oil.
Harriet is 12 years old. She was a stray that waltzed into our lives right after Chris and I got married.
And this is Pockets, our other dog.
In dog years, Pockets is approximately 2 million years old. The little lad has some amazing longevity in his genes. Although no one knows the hour of His return, I'm betting Pockets will be here when Jesus comes back.
Pockets was Chris' dog before we met. He was our first pet together. We then adopted Harriet and a stray black kitten named Spooky. Spooky fell ill and died in 2008. Now Harriet will be gone tomorrow. Pockets (and Mr. Sniffer) will remain. It's strange how things sometimes come full-circle.
I wouldn't trade all of the wonderful memories I have of Harriet for the pain her absence will create. But doing the right thing dang sure doesn't make it any easier.
Will you kindly think of me and my family tomorrow afternoon about this time?
The Broken-Hearted Animal Lover