Yesterday one of our friends had to put her dog to sleep. He was only five, but his kidneys were failing and the vet said he wouldn't make it through the day. So they took him home, snuggled him on his favorite couch, and said goodbye.
I cried when I read her Facebook post. Nothing touches me more than animals who are suffering, in pain, or dying. Nothing gets me more than a pet owner in so much pain because he or she is going to lose their companion, their baby.
When Adam and I found out Jack was sick and likely wouldn't make it, I lay with my head on his chest. I talked to him about my fear of death, not so much for myself as I am invincible and the Jewish Superwoman, but for those I love. Two-leggers and four-leggers alike.
"I have a good sense of denial," he said. "I'm not interested in accepting or in fighting the fact that we're going to die."
Then he grinned.
"Besides," he said, "when you're 114 years old and I'm 110, you're going to be going off on me in the nursing home, 'What did you mean by that? Can't you learn to communicate?' And I'll be dribbling pea soup down my face, going, 'Huh?' And we'll die together."
I like his thinking.
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