|
Tuesday, December 30, 2003I don't know. I think I was fourteen when we got her. Well, got might not be the right word. She was dumped off in front of our house, in the middle of March, and it was rainy, and it was cold, and she huddled against the chimney and shivered. We tried to ignore her. Our beloved Max had only died a week before, if that. But she was tiny, and pathetic, and we took her in. Our first female dog. She was black, and so we named her Nia, which is, in an African dialect, the word for black. And now she's sick. And I'm waiting for her to die. I hate it. I don't like it. The vet wants to put her to sleep. She's been sick, on an off for awhile. Bed sores. Worms. Hacking coughs. And I've fought and fought. Now she doesn't want to eat, and her back legs don't work. I carry her around and she's light, like so many sticks loosly bundled together. And I won't put her to sleep. You may hate me for it. But I don't know. Don't we fight for every breath? For every hour? And so I carry her to her house in the morning. I put her water and whatever meat I'm hoping will tempt her near by. I carry her back into the shop, into the warm at night. I muck out her house and put in fresh hay. Next motrning, repeat. Clean up the hay from the shop floor. If it's too cold I simply move her until I can put down clean hay. she'd rather be outside. She always liked it better, out. She could hardly be contained, before this...even the coldest nights she'd fuss and tear around, wanting to be in her home, in her bed. Sometimes I listened, sometimes I looked at the thermometer and told her she'd just have to settle herself. So I wait. What you do? She can't tell you if she hurts. If she wants to be let go. So you check on her often, and you wonder what it'll be like, if she's gone, and you're relived when she isn't. You pound dry dogfood into pieces and mix it with other dog food. You heat gravy in the microwave. You cut up leftovers into tiny pieces, hoping one of these things she'll eat. And you know that if she doesn't start moving soon, that you'll be digging a hole in frozen ground, as cold as your heart, and you'll be feeling stupid because it's only a dog, even though you know, you're praying maybe you'll see her again. And you don't know whether to pray or not, really. Do my prayers keep her when she shouldn't be kept? Do dogs even get into heaven, or are the reincarnzated, over and over, each of us seeking what we loved in a silent creatures eyes? You might be wondering if this isn't something to take up with a Christian group, but I don't think so. Why? None of us know. We only know what makes us able to go on. What we want to know. Maybe I;m making a lot out of nothing. But it's late, and I'm cold, and I know I have to go check the fire, and I'm dreading it. But I'll go. I'll go and see. Permalink Cindy scribed this at 10:15 PM 0 comments |