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"I Will Come For You, If You Ask Me To..."
Aug. 5th, 2008 10:03 pmWell. It turns out that the Yellow Dog's halitosis is not actually halitosis, it's two septic wounds. One's under his ear, and enormous, and may have a tumour in it--we aren't totally clear on what the large bleeding round protrusion is. He also has one on his elbow. The ear one had maggots in it, which Mama and I cleaned out, and we doctored him up and gave him pain pills and silver sulfadine and what-have-you, and the vet is coming to-morrow, but--
The Yellow Dog has been sick for a long time. He is mostly blind, mostly deaf, and so arthritic that he can't climb stairs. I think that the wounds are really the last straw, and he needs to be put down. I really don't know how to suggest to Mama--she is pretty much convinced that the whole thing is her fault. "If I had looked at him properly! If I hadn't assumed! I'm the worst Mama any dog ever had." She is being quietly self-hateful about it all. She is also convinced that she can fix him up with her wound supplies.
But he just seems so miserable. He lay on the kitchen floor all day and whimpered. He is not a happy dog anymore. And he's old.
Also, my Calico Cat has definitely got tapeworm, so that will be fun.
The Black Cat and the Black Dog are, God help us and knock on wood, both fine, although Black Dog may never forgive me for snagging her and hacking all the burrs out of her coat with a machete (read: scissors) this evening.
And everybody is unhappy, and that makes me feel--responsible. Very responsible. I know, I do know, that everyone's unhappiness is not something I should single-handedly be able to alleviate, but, God. Sometimes I feel that way anyway. It is not a good-for-the-stomach feeling.
The Yellow Dog has been sick for a long time. He is mostly blind, mostly deaf, and so arthritic that he can't climb stairs. I think that the wounds are really the last straw, and he needs to be put down. I really don't know how to suggest to Mama--she is pretty much convinced that the whole thing is her fault. "If I had looked at him properly! If I hadn't assumed! I'm the worst Mama any dog ever had." She is being quietly self-hateful about it all. She is also convinced that she can fix him up with her wound supplies.
But he just seems so miserable. He lay on the kitchen floor all day and whimpered. He is not a happy dog anymore. And he's old.
Also, my Calico Cat has definitely got tapeworm, so that will be fun.
The Black Cat and the Black Dog are, God help us and knock on wood, both fine, although Black Dog may never forgive me for snagging her and hacking all the burrs out of her coat with a machete (read: scissors) this evening.
And everybody is unhappy, and that makes me feel--responsible. Very responsible. I know, I do know, that everyone's unhappiness is not something I should single-handedly be able to alleviate, but, God. Sometimes I feel that way anyway. It is not a good-for-the-stomach feeling.
