A Really Bad Day

I'll be brief: today Susan and I had to put our dear little Boston terrier Prozac into the permanent sleep. While we were gone out of town for a wedding of a beloved niece in Colorado, Pro stayed with her usual humans while we're away. I thank heavens for Kay and John Pillow. I would not have wanted my little dog with anybody else in the world to deal with what happened: about a dozen seizures between Saturday evening and Monday evening, some pretty serious, all messy and distressing--they turned out to be harbingers of her demise. For they destroyed her little brain. (Likely it was a brain tumor of some kind that brought the seizures on.)

We can back early from our trip and got to our friends' a little after midnight on Tuesday morning. It was obvious when we first saw Pro that she was not near herself. No signs of recognition of us at all. No energy, mostly blind, totally unsteady on her feet. When we got her home and observed the next day, she continued to exhibit signs of total disorientation. Still didn't know us, although she did allow us to cuddle her.  She would not eat or drink, not even ice cream or peanut butter, her most favorite things in the world. Would just wander aimlessly around. At one point, she circled a sofa and table for about ten minutes.

We could not get her to the doctor till this morning . . . and we found out later as we talked that neither of us thought there was going to be anything the doc could do for our little dog. We knew this was the end. But of course we didn't share these thoughts at the time.

I will bury her in the backyard. I'm not in good shape at all. I loved that dog beyond all measure. She was, we think, ten years old, but understand now it was likely more like 13-15.