Dead Dog Barking
A second chance story, from my dog’s point of view
September 11, 2019, was supposed to be my day to die. My human mom chose it because she said that the pain of losing me might blur into the cosmic agony of that date. Or maybe not; she was crying so hard the entire week that one circle on the calendar wouldn’t have made a difference.
She had picked that date on the afternoon of September 10. I was in the vet’s office getting another series of shots, and they didn’t seem to be working. I still felt sick. My belly hurt. My legs felt stiff. My throat was sore and scratchy. I didn’t have the energy to raise my head. I barely flinched when they gave me the sequence that had become almost routine: antibiotics, anti-inflammatory drugs, painkillers, cortisone.
I was losing weight by the hour, it seemed. I didn’t want to eat because of constant nausea. The nausea made me thirsty, but I couldn’t keep water down either, so I had also lost interest in drinking.
The vets shook their heads sadly. “This isn’t helping. There is nothing more we can do. If you don’t want Giada to suffer [they were looking at my mom, not at me], we can give her THE shot right now, while we have all the equipment at hand.”
“No, no,” mom said with a quavering voice. “I want my girl to die at home. Please give her…
