Pudge

It really hit me when I put Pudge in the truck to take him to the vet. Normally, I had to struggle to lift his 63 pounds into the back, but today, the weight he had lost was evident and I easily lifted him the three feet.

In the waiting room, those there for mundane things such as shots and check-ups, smiled at us and petted Pudge�s head. �What a sweet beautiful dog.� And he was.

The doctor brought us back into the examining room and asked me how he was doing. I tried to tell him about the excessive diarrhea that now showed signs of blood, but the words were mangled in my throat. He took a sample, but I knew it was just routine. He asked if I wanted to try treating the diarrhea first and I asked, �Will it make a difference?� Then he read my mind and said, �Did you come here to put him to sleep?� and I just nodded. Does you husband know? Nod. Does he agree? Nod. I think it�s for the best. Nod.

The doctor shows the nurses Pudge�s back leg, where he actually fought the fungus, and then he shows him the bump in his front leg, where he�s not. He mentions the x-rays, and the masses in his chest that are crystallizing, teaching them, and I think reassuring me that although my beautiful dog does not show signs of being in pain, he is. The nurses agree and are amazed and all I can do is restrain myself from becoming a blubbering mess.

I sign the release, and then it all becomes surreal as they push Pudge into a lying position and ask me to pat his head and let him know it will all be all right. But it�s not. And as soon as the needle is plunged, he is gone and I want them to take it back. I made a mistake. Even when I know I didn�t.

I cry into the soft fur of his neck and whisper, �Bye buddy, I�m so sorry.� And then I leave.

Now there�s the void, which I know will get better, but for now it just hurts.