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The kids in the neighborhood were
all abuzz with the news. Timmy, my 8 year old son ran into the kitchen, slamming
the screen door. His face was glowing with excitement and delight.
“Mommy! Daddy!
Joey’s dog is having PUPPIES! And… and… and…” He stopped to take a
breath. He ended up taking several. He had obviously run all the way home.
“… and he says we can HAVE
one! For Free!”
Timmy was obviously amazed that
anyone would give him such a treasure. He wasn’t asking if he could have a
pet, he was announcing our incredible stroke of good fortune.
My wife had just discovered she
was about to have a baby and we had worried about Timmy feeling less important.
The puppy would be a perfect solution. It would be something for Timmy to love
and care for. Perhaps Timmy would understand about the ‘special attention’ a
young life needs. We agreed.
Before we went to pick out the
puppy, we began the time-honored tradition of explaining to the child about his
new responsibilities. We elicited all the required promises around feeding,
walking, and cleaning up after the pet. Timmy solemnly agreed, as children
always do. Perhaps he truly intended to, but, as always, the jobs eventually
became ours.
At Joey’s house, the ritual of
‘selecting the puppy’ followed the expected course. In the back of
the closet, snuggled in soiled towels that Joey’s mom undoubtedly mourned the
loss of, were nine of the cutest, mutt-Keeshonds imaginable. Timmy selected the
one with the soulmate eyes and later named her “Mercedes”.
There are lovely, funny, and sad
stories to tell about Timmy and Mercedes. There were warm snuggles in bed,
tricks that went awry, lessons that were sometimes learned, and our midnight
treks through the neighborhood seemingly calling for our car. The final story,
though, is one of sadness, grief and loss.
At two years old, Mercedes started
snapping at us, with violent, often frightening growls. The episodes would come
without warning and became more frequent. With the baby just beginning to
venture out of his playpen, we had to act decisively. The vet said it was a
genetic epilepsy and that, although it might be treatable, was incurable.
With a depth of grief and remorse
that can only be understood by those who have shared it, we sent Mercedes to the
Rainbow Bridge.
Our choice wasn’t uncommon and
we didn’t feel that it was cruel. We were protecting our family and following
the advice of a professional. It was best for everyone and it was the
‘right’ thing to do. We weathered the grief and, although we never forgot,
we moved on.
My awakening came several years
later. My mother, still young and lovely in her early 60’s, called with some
chilling news. The doctor had just informed her that what we had thought were
just ‘severe mood swings’ were actually mild epileptic seizures. The doctor
had said that the epilepsy was treatable, but incurable. A cold chill gripped
the base of my spine like a spasm as I remembered when I had heard those words before.
HandicappedPets.com is dedicated
to Mercedes, and to all of the animals who have been ‘put to sleep’ before
their time. And to my mother who is still completely healthy, happy, young, and vibrant. She takes
a pill every now and then for her condition.
(c) 2001
all rights reserved
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