I put Brutus (Bubba) down Tuesday afternoon.
I was outside my self, almost hysterical, in a kind of controlled panic. Called the vet, waited 4 hours, knowing I would never be able to go through with it. Bubba had not been relaxed, happy, curious, or able to strut his stuff for weeks. I made a conscious decision to watch him for about a week, for any sign of joy, or even ok-ness, 24 hours a day. There was no sign of him enjoying anything, and I knew what I must do. I also knew, I could not do it.
We went for a walk, I let him root around the back yard and garden, say hi to the neighborhood dogs, let go of his leash and let him lead me. The tears were burning my eyes, it was freezing cold and rainy, and I was shaking from head to toe. The time passed, and it was time to go. I put on his leash, told Ollie to stay, and Brutus was excited to be going in the car. That, killed me. I wanted the car not to start, looking for a sign to make me stop this trip. I let him sit on my lap as we drove the 2 miles in the sleet. I thought I was going to vomit, shaking and crying so hard, and the heat was on high. I'm sure the other drivers thought I was some sort of whacked out crack whore. I kind of felt like one.
We got to the vet, he smelled his last smells in the parking lot, and we went inside. They took my credit card, and kept us waiting 15 minutes. Are you fucking kidding me? There were no other cars in the lot, no other patients, and you kept us waiting 15 minutes???? I talked to Bubba, and said we could run, escape, bolt. But I knew, I would only have to go through the last day again very soon, and I am just not that strong.
The assistant took off his collar (dying now, me), and said she needed to weigh him. I blurted out "Why? What's the point?", but they did, 17.8 lbs. He's lost 3 pounds. Guess they need an exact weight for the death injection, to which I think "really? a cc or 2 is gonna make a diff?"
I hold him like a baby, as he gets the intramuscular sedative. He seems to fight it, and a little more of me dies. I still want to bolt. He looks at me and I tell him I am so sorry, and that he didn't do anything to deserve this, and that I love him so very much. His always rigid, strong, tough body relaxes a little, he lets out a sigh, and I know we've reached the point of no return.
They gave us some time, as he gave into the narcotics, then returned for the 2nd and 3rd chambers of the death penalty procedure. (I do not believe in the death penalty EVER, for anyone, and here I am, doing it to my man). They say to put him on the stainless steel table, covered with a terry cloth pad, and I cry "But you said I could hold him". 'Oh you can, but up here'. A little more of me dies. They put a tourniquet on his little leg and inject the phenobarbitol. I hold him as tightly and closely as I can, telling him he did nothing to deserve this, he was the best, I love him more than life itself. I realize he is no longer breathing, and the doc checks for a heartbeat. Nada. Bubba is gone. He is still warm, soft, pliable. I am, cold, shaking, stiff, nauseated, numb. I ask them to be gentle with his body, treat him with respect, pick up his empty collar and leash, and leave the building, wondering what in the hell just happened.
I get to the car, turn it on, and just sit there. My baby calls, and I am a fucking mess, not knowing how I am going to get home. Chelsea talks me down, and somehow, I make it.
I walk in, and Ollie greats me with her delayed 'hello' bark, and sniffs Bubba's collar.
I had no idea how much this was going to effect Ollie, Annie, Chelsea and Heather. This will be saved for another rambling. For now, know that this little guy was an ambassador for human-animal relations, in a major way. EVERYone who met him, had an immediate fondness, if not love for him. He was strong, aloof, and one 'you gotta love me' dog. He was the Mayor of Land Park. He taught me how to love unconditionally, put another's needs before my own, and loved me more than I ever knew. I have a great big old hole in my heart now. I miss him every minute.
RIP my man, my best friend, Brutus Anne MacMullan Perry, May 1995- February 1, 2011.
Most of you understand, and those that don't....well, I can't relate to you, on any level, probably.
If you don't care for animals, you can't care for anything in any depth at all.
