(no subject)
For the past two years, whenever I visit my parents, I've said goodbye to our dog, Jasper. Once he hit fifteen, I figured any further time he had was limited. Now he's seventeen, this ridiculous bionic dog who somehow manages to keep on going. He even managed to pop his own dislocated hip back into place!
This time, I'm pretty sure the goodbyes are for real. He's slowly lost energy, hearing, and sight over the years, but he was still Jasper: exploring the neighborhood whenever the front door blew open, doing cute-eyes to get Cheez-its from my dad, passionately barking at squirrels, staring at the kitchen floor and hoping food would appear, taking corners too fast and skittering into the wall. Whenever I visited, he would jump all over me as though I'd returned from a long journey, then dash to his toy basket to play Chewball Attack. Because I'm the only one he plays with, even if he has to stop and catch his breath every now and then.
But now, he's losing himself. He's so blind that he can't see an open door, much less dash out of it. The feigned deafness when he didn't want to come inside has become real, to the point where he isn't even disturbed by the vacuum. He can't jump up, roll over for tummy rubs, or even walk much. He's forgotten his toys exist. The dog who used to block the door with his body and howl for hours when my mom went to work now can't even tell if anyone is home or not.
And yet somehow, he still recognized me. When I woke him from a sleep so profound I feared he was dead, he wagged his tail and lowered his head for ear-scritches. Despite all his losses, he still knows me, and is still glad I'm there. Which is why each goodbye does nothing to lessen my eventual grief: Once he goes, there won't be any dogs who love me. If my parents get another puppy, it won't know me, and I won't really know it, either. Patrick and I want a dog, but that won't happen for a while yet. And none of these future dogs will be Jasper, with his floppy ears and ridiculously soft fur and little white socks. With so much love in my life, why does the thought of losing Jasper's hurt so badly?
Now it really is time to let go, before he loses himself entirely. His little bionic dog body is mostly keeping him out of pain, and I'm grateful for that. But with such rapid degeneration, I don't think he can hold out much longer, and I don't want to see him get worse. I will still be a sobbing wreck when he goes, but at least I can know it will be a release for him. And I'm comforted to know that until the end, the love will be mutual.
This time, I'm pretty sure the goodbyes are for real. He's slowly lost energy, hearing, and sight over the years, but he was still Jasper: exploring the neighborhood whenever the front door blew open, doing cute-eyes to get Cheez-its from my dad, passionately barking at squirrels, staring at the kitchen floor and hoping food would appear, taking corners too fast and skittering into the wall. Whenever I visited, he would jump all over me as though I'd returned from a long journey, then dash to his toy basket to play Chewball Attack. Because I'm the only one he plays with, even if he has to stop and catch his breath every now and then.
But now, he's losing himself. He's so blind that he can't see an open door, much less dash out of it. The feigned deafness when he didn't want to come inside has become real, to the point where he isn't even disturbed by the vacuum. He can't jump up, roll over for tummy rubs, or even walk much. He's forgotten his toys exist. The dog who used to block the door with his body and howl for hours when my mom went to work now can't even tell if anyone is home or not.
And yet somehow, he still recognized me. When I woke him from a sleep so profound I feared he was dead, he wagged his tail and lowered his head for ear-scritches. Despite all his losses, he still knows me, and is still glad I'm there. Which is why each goodbye does nothing to lessen my eventual grief: Once he goes, there won't be any dogs who love me. If my parents get another puppy, it won't know me, and I won't really know it, either. Patrick and I want a dog, but that won't happen for a while yet. And none of these future dogs will be Jasper, with his floppy ears and ridiculously soft fur and little white socks. With so much love in my life, why does the thought of losing Jasper's hurt so badly?
Now it really is time to let go, before he loses himself entirely. His little bionic dog body is mostly keeping him out of pain, and I'm grateful for that. But with such rapid degeneration, I don't think he can hold out much longer, and I don't want to see him get worse. I will still be a sobbing wreck when he goes, but at least I can know it will be a release for him. And I'm comforted to know that until the end, the love will be mutual.