Losing a pet is the last thing any of us can imagine on any normal day. So, when my parents called me this past Tuesday and told me that they made the decision to put our family dog, Buddy, down, I was stunned. I remember feeling weak, as if all the energy was suddenly sucked from my body and I collapsed onto the floor of my dorm room in tears. I was completely and utterly broken.
Buddy was my first dog, my favorite dog. He was my mom’s shadow and my dad’s travel companion. He was my family’s perfect fit for the past thirteen years. My mother recently sent me a photo of Buddy and me from the day we brought him home from the shelter, back in 2006. He was young, relatively healthy considering his circumstances, and happy. It was a stark contrast to the photo she sent minutes before the vet took him in. The photo could not hide his old age, his frailty, his misery. The vet commented that he was not living, just existing. As much as I did not want to hear it or believe that my best friend was terribly ill, there was no denying the truth. Forcing him to continue to exist in such a great deal of discomfort would be cruel. It was not our lives that my family had to consider at that point, it was Buddy’s.
I got the call at 2:56 pm on Tuesday. Tears flowed from my eyes like a constant stream well into the night, and even now as I am writing this, I am not well. And I don’t have to be. Everyone is saying that he lived a good life and that he is in a better place now. I hate that. I hate that that’s all there is to say. I hate that he had to spend his last few moments in pain and I hate that the better place is far away from me. But it’s not about me. So, for now, the best thing I can think to do is to cry when I need to, talk to those who will listen, and remember him fondly. I will take my time to grieve and accept, and hope that the time will come when it won’t hurt anymore to remember.