I took my dogs to the vet today to have nails clipped and distemper shots. While I was waiting, a young man came in for serious service. He had good control of his voice, but it dropped when he said "my dog."
"How may I help you?" the receptionist began.
The young man said, "I've come to have my dog put down."
Matter-of-fact. It wasn't easy.
"I'm sorry to hear that," vet tech receptionist said. "How old is he?"
"He's 19. He's my dog. I'm 20. He..." he couldn't say more. Then he did.
"My whole life, he's been there."
He smiled, he tried to, and he smiled.
"what breed?" she asked.
"Lab retriever. Yellow lab."
"What are the symptoms? Is he eating, drinking? can he move?"
"He can eat and drink all right, he can move around after I lift him up in the morning and help him get around. Then he can move a little. he still pees outside. He hurts."
"Would you like to talk to the vet, have an exam first, to see if there's anything we can do?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I would like that. Last weekend I took him with me to Texarkana to hunt ducks. He sat with me in the blind." The young man smiled."I wouldn't let him get the ducks, but he wanted to. I kept him right by me."
Labs don't live that long, usually. A lot of care and love went into that dog's life.
And I won't forget what he said: "He's 19 and I am 20--he's always been my dog."