My family had this dog when I was little. His name was Teddy, and my parents got him when my brother was three, which was five years before my birth. He was this one big, stable thing I could grow up with and hug without feeling weird.

When I was in third grade, they started him on medicine for pain. Every once in a while he wouldn't walk, but he was all right enough, and seemed like he was in minimal pain, even off the meds. Or maybe that's what my child mind imagined.

And when I was in fifth grade, Teddy fell down the stairs, and he was in a lot of pain, so they started taking about putting Teddy to sleep. I cried, and begged, but then finally gave up and started saying my goodbyes to him. I thought he'd have a really peaceful death after a few days of the family treating him extra well, so he would go gently and without fear. But he always trusted us. That was the thing I loved most about him.

Then they decided to give him a while, because he was okay. They told me if I hadn't cried, they would have let him go then.

We cherished those few months. I did especially, because I didn't hear another word about it. I thought Teddy would stay until he walked off into the forest and hid there to die, peaceful and natural, like I thought dogs should. We went back into our normal routines.

Then, one night, he wouldn't stop howling and barking. Being a kid with sensitive hearing, I got frustrated and yelled at him extra hard so he would be quiet.

I remember that next morning, I got sick and they drove Teddy to the vet put him down. Mum came home crying, and I had to sit there and hold her while she cried.

And I guess that's the day I realized that someone has to be the rock. Someone has to hold back the tears, at least until no one else is around, so everyone else can stop crying and return to normal. When you lose something that's been around for so long, it's like finding out the sun went out a long time ago, and that we're just now losing the light--like nothing will ever be the same, and the world will just ice over, and we'll all be preserved just as we are, awaiting the return of any source of warmth in the world.

It wouldn't have been so bad if I hadn't yelled at him, the night before. I can never get past the question in my mind, constantly wondering whether his last minutes alive were spent thinking that he was a Bad Dog. And I think if I could do it again, I would give up those few months and let him die with everyone around him being happy and peaceful, right up until the very moment his last breath passed.

The moral of the story is that sometimes when you get second chances you shouldn't take them, because they could lead to something worse than the first chance, and sometimes you don't get second chances, and that sometimes, that's okay.

i sometimes wonder if my death would impact someone. i wonder would someone cry over my death. i wonder...
» renaye on 2008-06-05 10:27:15

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