RIP Simba my dog
Today I had to authorize the vet down in Kansas City to euthanize my dog. His health had been deteriorating for months now, and he weighed literally less than half of what he used to. He was constantly crying and in constant pain, and there was absolutely nothing they could do for him. They called me here in ATL and told me that they couldn't contact either of my parents since they were both working and needed permission to put him to sleep. I told them to do it. Less than ten minutes later my dog Simba was dead. My sister has requested that they send her the ashes so she can spread them across our back yard in KC where he used to run around and play for so many years.
Some people might be like "Oh ok, that sucks, your dog died, but whatever it's just a pet." No, that's bullshit. You don't fucking get it if you can say that. We got Simba when I was 12 years old. He was only a few weeks old when we bought him. Even though he was technically for my sister, she was in college at this point, and he was basically mine. I was just about to finish 6th grade. From then on, until I graduated from high school and went to college he truly was man's best friend. I could have been having the worst day of my life, and I could come home and play with him and feel better. I could be angrier than I've ever been in my life and I could look at him staring at me with his almost human eyes and all my anger would just evaporate. On days when every single person in my life, friends and family, was railing on me, pissing me off, or making me feel terrible, I could come home and he would run to the door wagging his tail and jumping on me because he was always, ALWAYS, happy to see me. I could always hold him and pet him and play fetch with him, and mess around with him, he would do something stupid or silly and it would make me laugh and feel better. He was a constant in my life since the day we got him, to the point that I don't know what it feels like to be in my parents' house and not have a dog around. He was just an innocent creature who wanted to be loved and taken care of by my family, and loved us unconditionally.
Maybe he was just a dog to everyone else but I loved him a lot. And while I know that I did the right thing, I'm forever going to remember that I'M the one who gave someone else permission to kill him.
I have only truly cried maybe twice in the past 5 years, but I would be lying if I didn't say that I had my 1-2 minutes today where I teared up thinking about him. I may like to think of myself as a tough guy, but there is nothing un-masculine about mourning the loss of something you loved.
I guess in a weird way it sort of puts everything in perspective. Treasure the things you care about the most.
Some people might be like "Oh ok, that sucks, your dog died, but whatever it's just a pet." No, that's bullshit. You don't fucking get it if you can say that. We got Simba when I was 12 years old. He was only a few weeks old when we bought him. Even though he was technically for my sister, she was in college at this point, and he was basically mine. I was just about to finish 6th grade. From then on, until I graduated from high school and went to college he truly was man's best friend. I could have been having the worst day of my life, and I could come home and play with him and feel better. I could be angrier than I've ever been in my life and I could look at him staring at me with his almost human eyes and all my anger would just evaporate. On days when every single person in my life, friends and family, was railing on me, pissing me off, or making me feel terrible, I could come home and he would run to the door wagging his tail and jumping on me because he was always, ALWAYS, happy to see me. I could always hold him and pet him and play fetch with him, and mess around with him, he would do something stupid or silly and it would make me laugh and feel better. He was a constant in my life since the day we got him, to the point that I don't know what it feels like to be in my parents' house and not have a dog around. He was just an innocent creature who wanted to be loved and taken care of by my family, and loved us unconditionally.
Maybe he was just a dog to everyone else but I loved him a lot. And while I know that I did the right thing, I'm forever going to remember that I'M the one who gave someone else permission to kill him.
I have only truly cried maybe twice in the past 5 years, but I would be lying if I didn't say that I had my 1-2 minutes today where I teared up thinking about him. I may like to think of myself as a tough guy, but there is nothing un-masculine about mourning the loss of something you loved.
I guess in a weird way it sort of puts everything in perspective. Treasure the things you care about the most.