It’s never easy to say good-bye to a furbaby, even when you know it’s the kindest thing you can do sometimes. Yesterday, Hubby and I had to make that decision for our boy Apache, aka Puppy. He was “career-changed” from the service dog group we used to puppyraise for and we were able to adopt him. Not a very bright boy, but not a mean bone in his body. We’d also had his momma, Holly, of whom Apache was from her third and final litter. Her nickname was Momma Moo, and Apache’s was Puppy.
Every loss rips my heart out from the inside out. I hate saying good-bye. I know he’s out of pain and no longer suffering, and we’re left with all the precious memories of him, but it’s never easy. It’s a decision I saw coming months ago once I knew he had an aggressive bone cancer, and I agonized over it. Is it too soon? Did we wait too long? We fed him his favorite treats on the way to the vet. But as always we were there, holding him, telling him what a good boy he was and how much we loved him as he closed his eyes for the last time. And as with our other babies, in a week or so they’ll call us to come claim his ashes, and he’ll go on a shelf with our others, waiting, always with us.
So now we have Gidget, last dog standing. And of course, her superminion, Sheldon the tortoise. And two birds, and seven cats. Of which BW has been dubbed zombie cat, because he’s far outlived my expectations. (He was my grandparents’ cat, which I inherited with their bird.) I’ve warned my son that eventually he’ll inherit a shelf full of urns, including Hubby’s and my own, and Sheldon (who has a potential life span of forty years, if I’m lucky).
And at this rate he might inherit zombie cat, for all I know.
We’ll see you at the Rainbow Bridge one day, Puppy. I know all our other furbabies were waiting there for you, and you’re with your momma again. And you’ll be waiting there for the others as they eventually join you, too.
You were a very good boy, such a sweet dog, and we’ll always love and miss you.