Of giving your heart to a dog to tear."
-- Rudyard Kipling
Back in January I thought I was going to lose him. He wasn't eating and he was panting heavy and he wouldn't stop pacing the floor. His back legs seemed to sag under his weight and he refused to lower himself to the ground. He spent a couple days at MedVet and after numerous tests they diagnosed him with pancreatitis. It broke me to see this poor dog looking so ill. I think part of his problem was they had him very doped up on painkillers, but he was obviously agitated, probably not sure why he was being left at the vet's and why things hurt and why he didn't want to eat. Even after he came home, it was several weeks before he was back to what passed for normal those days. I swore to myself that I wouldn't put him through that again. From the beginning my big concern was that he not suffer, that the quality of his days was more important than the quantity.
The folks at Village Animal Hospital squeezed him in at 10:30 and couldn't have been kinder. My husband and I stroked Frank's head as the vet shaved his leg and then injected him. I had been crying all morning, but even my husband, who is not nicknamed "The Vulcan" for nothing, shed a few tears as Frank slipped peacefully away.
|Young Frank with Baby Foghorn|
|Patiently tolerating the pearl bracelet|
Foghorn put on him
Often over the years I've thought of the shelter worker who called dogs like him "a dime a dozen." Was she crazy? This dog was one in a million.
|Rest in peace, my sweet boy.|
You'll never be forgotten.