Well god damn.
My fucking dog is dying.
For the five years that I raised her from a tiny furball into the monstrous adult St. Bernard she is today, she never had a health problem. She was strong, active, lively, healthy, and had the most excellent temperament one could ever hope to see in a dog.
Then I moved a few states away to go to college.
The original plan was to get my parents to take care of her for a couple of months while I got on my feet and found a place that would allow me to keep her. When I finally did that, I found that the rest of the family had become so attached to her that I'm torn between how much I do miss her and how much they would miss her. I tried to take it up with them a few times, but I could tell where it was going and I didn't want anything to get ugly. She was happy. They were happy. Cool. I guess.
A little more than half a year after I left, she started developing infections. Random ones. Life-threatening ones. It's like her immune system isn't even there.
There's no doubt that she's receiving excellent care. She's spoiled even. She sleeps in my old room. Eats Science Diets. Gets walked whenever she's strong enough. Gets all kinds of attention and loves it.
St. Bernards are supposed to have one of the longest life spans of any giant breed. Most of her line before her lived to be ten years old or older. All the vet can say is that whatever's happening with her is genetic. She's breaking down early and doesn't have much time left.
I had planned for at least a few more years of rough-housing and her fetching me beers from the fridge (yes, she is one of those dogs that does that) and freaking out all the company I bring home, but that's been cancelled. Sorry. Time's up.
That's been pretty much the theme of the day.
I was offered a job today doing the same thing I do now, but for additional 20k/year. Good news. More money. I suppose I'll pay my truck off early. Build that recording booth. Pay off my credit card debt from this year's holiday shopping. All good things.
For the five years that I raised her from a tiny furball into the monstrous adult St. Bernard she is today, she never had a health problem. She was strong, active, lively, healthy, and had the most excellent temperament one could ever hope to see in a dog.
Then I moved a few states away to go to college.
The original plan was to get my parents to take care of her for a couple of months while I got on my feet and found a place that would allow me to keep her. When I finally did that, I found that the rest of the family had become so attached to her that I'm torn between how much I do miss her and how much they would miss her. I tried to take it up with them a few times, but I could tell where it was going and I didn't want anything to get ugly. She was happy. They were happy. Cool. I guess.
A little more than half a year after I left, she started developing infections. Random ones. Life-threatening ones. It's like her immune system isn't even there.
There's no doubt that she's receiving excellent care. She's spoiled even. She sleeps in my old room. Eats Science Diets. Gets walked whenever she's strong enough. Gets all kinds of attention and loves it.
St. Bernards are supposed to have one of the longest life spans of any giant breed. Most of her line before her lived to be ten years old or older. All the vet can say is that whatever's happening with her is genetic. She's breaking down early and doesn't have much time left.
I had planned for at least a few more years of rough-housing and her fetching me beers from the fridge (yes, she is one of those dogs that does that) and freaking out all the company I bring home, but that's been cancelled. Sorry. Time's up.
That's been pretty much the theme of the day.
I was offered a job today doing the same thing I do now, but for additional 20k/year. Good news. More money. I suppose I'll pay my truck off early. Build that recording booth. Pay off my credit card debt from this year's holiday shopping. All good things.