Sissy arrived in OS's house unannounced eleven years ago, brought home by the CollegeAgeDaughter, who had spotted the little ball of fluff at the local animal shelter's adoption appeal. The standard appeal to emotion was made--
She's so cute, and I'll take her with me after I graduate, I promise,
and how could you deny my blue eyes,
and beside if we don't rescue her they'll put her down,
and no one will have ever loved her.
Sissy was an unfortunate accidental cross of Cocker Spaniel and Chow (at least those two breeds could be detected). She was really not that attractive, definitely not clever, and she struggled her entire life with raging skin allergies, which came and went, but came more often and more painfully with every passing year. A crisis point arrived last year, when a young and highly self-righteous new member of the vet group refused to treat Sissy with that last-resort shot of steroid. It had been used effectively (and very sparingly) over the years, but this woman was adamant: It didn't matter how badly the dog was suffering, she would not budge. Sissy was in agony. A day later, we were back, this time with the experienced owner of the group, who said not a word as we entered the exam room, but had the injection waiting.
This drama repeated itself twice more, with the group owner catching so much flak from the juniors that one cold winter morning he met us on the sidewalk outside his offices before office hours. The syringe was in his hand, and we bought the dog six more months of happy life. The previous day's loud argument with the junior vet, in the lobby of the practice, led OS to leave orders with the staff that only the senior was to ever touch his dogs in the future.
All was going relatively well, but as Spring progressed, it became obvious we had reached the end of the road. The senior and I had talked it over before, and he let me know I would know when the time came. To continue the steroids at the frequency needed to keep the dog out of pain would inevitably burn her liver out. The final visitation of her affliction was simply too much. We had reached checkmate.
So, today, we took that final drive, and the senior and I had that final conversation:
'Cremation?'
'Yes, please.'
'Do you want to be with her as we do this?'
'Is it cruel if I don't?'
'No, of course not.'
'Then I'll remain here.'
OS has had enough life experiences, didn't need to see his dog euthanized and spend days reliving it and getting over it.
A few minutes later, the senior and a staffer took Sissy, and OS lingered in the lobby. After some minutes, the receptionist noticed me, and gently said, 'It's ok, we'll mail you the invoice, no need to settle up today.'
So, OS drove off, knowing he had done The Right Thing, blessed with a clear conscience; and at the same moment heavy of heart. There are limits to what we can do, no matter how good the intentions, how diligent the effort. The Day arrives, and the Correct Decision must be taken.
Sissy's final gift to OS, perhaps the reason she showed up to begin with, was that moment of insight, that a clear conscience and heavy heart must inevitably exist side by side at some points in life. She gave him a new perspective on some of the events of his trudge through the Vale of Tears--the heavy heart need not be confused with a guilty conscience.
OS suspects there is some provision in Providence for the souls of dogs--no proof, mind you, and nothing to construct any solid theological structure. It may just be a fond hope. But, if Providence has made that provision, then OS knows Sissy was greeted by two of her predecessors, who like her had guarded the farm and helped raise the two children. He had a sense a few minutes into his drive home that they were waiting for her. They showed her around her new farm, a farm without ticks or fleas, with rabbits to chase, and children always around to scratch her behind the ears, toss dog biscuits for her to catch(She loved doing that!), and feed her bits of cheese.
She deserves no less, if that provision has been made.
