Today is a sad day. Ronnie Darling, my 13.5 year old Pomeranian was euthanized this morning. He once belonged to my mother, but I rescued him from a bad situation when she began dating a man who would abuse the little dog. When I got him, he was a snippy thing who would definitely bite the hand that fed him. If I had to clean his backside or wipe his eyes of gunk, I had to be fast or risk losing a finger to those razor sharp tiny teeth. He would low growl and bare his little Pomeranian teeth at me. He never did let go of that aggressiveness and he bit me several times. Honestly, Ronnie could be a royal pain in the ass and I would never choose to adopt the yappy little breed, but he couldn’t help being who he was.
The poor dog had bad hips and already had had surgery to repair his dislocated right hip two years ago. He was then diagnosed with Cushing’s Disease (over-secretion of corticosteroids–people get it too). He had tumors. He was having difficulty walking. The last straw for my husband was the incontinence. He had been housebroken, but he lost control of his bowels at the most inopportune moments and places. The indignities of aging don’t escape anyone, even man’s best friend.
Rationally, I know the humane thing to do was to put him down. I gave him his last meal last night, a nice big juicy hot dog. He loved it and even allowed me to pet him while he ate it.
Coming home tonight and not seeing his happy wagging tail is what I’m dreading. This isn’t my first time losing a dog to death. I lost my beloved chubby ugly epileptic dachshund, Dinky, years ago and I still tear up over his death–his loss was unexpected and sudden, and he was one of those special life changing dogs. People who have been owned by dogs know what I mean. Ronnie was not one of those dogs, but for some reason, I’m not finding this much easier.