||[Mar. 19th, 2011|01:08 am]
Football season is over. No More Games. No More Bombs. No More Walking. No More Fun. No More Swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun — for anybody. 67. You are getting Greedy. Act your old age. Relax — This won't hurt.|
We put Brandon to sleep. He was 15.
He was born here. He wasn't a normal dog; he liked eating vegetables, mainly tomatoes and sometimes carrots. For the first ten or so years of his life, he would fairly often escape from our yard and we would have to look for him. Usually, we found him quickly, but once he was gone for several hours. Turned out he was in the country club parking lot preventing people from getting into their cars.
He wasn't a violent dog with me, but he did like to fight dogs he didn't know, and occasionally, bite people. My former neighbor learned the hard way not to put her hand over my fence. In his defense, most of the dogs he got into fights with were not on leashes when they should have been.
He liked chasing our cats, but he would also tackle them and chew on their ears for some reason. As he got older, he stopped doing it.
He had been having trouble with his hips for years, but last week he could barely walk at all. He spent most of the time laying on the floor, and if I dropped some food he would attempt to crawl over to it.
He was obviously in pain. He didn't go for walks any more. He didn't go outside any more. He didn't really do anything. He should have been put to sleep years ago but it's so hard to do it.
It was only a few minutes before the doctor came in. He said it may take more than one shot, but it didn't. He said there may be gasping and jerking, but there wasn't. It didn't hurt.