Brigitta
Brigitta, a photo by Little Dog Laughed on Flickr.
Today I drove our old chow mix, Gitta, to the vet to be euthanized. She was fifteen, blind, deaf, a bit lame and only had two teeth left. She had to feel her way around the yard and got confused and afraid if another dog bumped into her. She just had so little quality of life. Yesterday I visited her in a patch of sun and petted her for about half an hour. When she found my hand or face, she would lick me with a flopping, slobbery tongue. Today at the vet, I had my arms around her the whole time and petted her until the end. One of the veterinarians was a family friend of thirty years, and it was nice to have her there. My dad didn't want to be there, which I understand. I'm good at this sort of thing. I only cried a little, but I feel worn out now.
Gitta (Brigitta) was a shelter puppy named "Gas" or something because she'd had mange and someone, following a wrongheaded old remedy, had tried to treat it with a refined petroleum product. So she was practically hairless. I don't even know why my mom went to the shelter -- she was always the one eventually *relenting* when others wanted a new pet. But somehow she chose this poor, scraggly pup. Of course the hair came in eventually and was quite thick and glorious. She had a very friendly personality. More than anything in the world, Gitta loved going for walks. The dogs have plenty of space to run in the yard, but she wanted variety. When she saw me with the leashes, she would go wild with excitement.
So, Brigitta, thanks for your many years of sweetness and doggy-ness.