Duchess took a turn for the worse last night and after driving her down to the full service emergency vet and a full workup, I knew I had no other choice but to let her go peacefully. She died in my arms. It was the worse thing I've ever been through. She was only 5 years old, never had any kind of health problems. I could barely process what the vet was telling me, but it was an aggressive form of bone marrow cancer, no sign, no cure.
I've been a devout Christian my entire life, but this just seems so senseless and randomly cruel.
I could write an entire book on my life with her--she was the smartest, most curious, vocal, and sometimes exasperating cat I've ever had. Both her and Bandit I actually talk with.
I lost my beloved Dixie 18 months ago--if anyone had told me back then I would lose 2 out of 3 in that period, I would have gone insane. Which, perhaps, tells us something about knowing too much about the future.
Here I think the focus is that I was flat on my back 52 days ago, utterly helpless and utterly useless. I shudder to think of going through this in that condition. What kind of dad? You know?
I drove two hours dead of night through the dark, darkness of the forest, my heart in pieces, mindful that is a dangerous drive where you can't take your eyes off the road for a second.
Almost home I notice the parking lot was full at one of the local dive bars. 2:30 a.m. And I was reminded how unimaginable it would be to drink over this and come to the following day with just another anvil on top of me.
Sociopath at a meeting: "not an alcohol related issue." Yeah? Really? So again, thank God I have here to come to.