Worst Day of My Life
I know that I’m supremely lucky that THIS was the worst day of my life, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less.
On Tuesday, the day we returned from our honeymoon, it finally sunk in that our dogs can’t join us in Spain. The realization came when our 11-year-old chow chow mix, Anders, snarled at my dad when asked to go in his crate. While he’s always had a bit of an attitude when asked to do something he didn’t want to do (nail trimming for example), this was the fourth time that he had shown his teeth that week. We suspect that his arthritis and hip issues are causing him more pain, because he is usually a happy, friendly boy. Not that that would matter to airline authorities if, scared and in pain during his midway potty break on a 14-hour overseas flight, Anders bit someone… The poor airline dog handler doesn’t deserve that, and frankly neither does Anders.
Our 15-year-old cattle dog mix, Ripley, is going to stay with him. She is deaf and has been showing signs of cognitive decline for at least a year. To be honest, she hasn’t adjusted that well even to the move from Missouri to Illinois, and it would be cruel to subject her to a long flight in the cargo hold by herself. Not to mention the stress and confusion of an international move… Maybe, if we had more time, Anders could have adjusted to better arthritis medication and Ripley would have been fine on anti-anxiety meds. We just don’t know. My wife even wondered if we should delay the move so that we could spend a few more months with them. Realistically, it’s impossible—we’ve already sunk all of our savings into this, we can no longer afford our house and healthcare, and every day Mango Mussolini and his cronies become more and more unhinged in their crusade against queer people, women, and immigrants.
Ripley and Anders are going to live out their days with their favorite grandpa. My dad has a house all to himself with a big fenced in yard for them to have old puppy zoomies. They know the house well and absolutely love their grandpa, who is retired and treats them to the ‘good’ wet dog food. My sister and her husband, who Anders is obsessed with, will visit at least once a week to play with them. My mum has even offered to help out with their vet bills. We’ll get pictures of them and have video chats. They’re going to get all the love and care they deserve. Logically we’re making the best decision for our kiddos.
It still hurts. Sometimes I’ll think I’m all cried out, but then I’ll look into Ripley’s sweet, cloudy brown eyes and tear up again. I won’t get to feel Anders’ wet nose press against my elbow while I’m working at my desk, or feel his soft, greasy fur when he sits on my feet and demands pets. I’ll think about how Ripley and I have spent 14-years together—nearly all of her life and most of my adult life—and the idea of her wondering where I am makes me choke up and shut down. Our new home will seem so empty without the click of their nails on the hardwood floors.
I don’t think I can write any more about this.
-Trash Goblin
