to vote for favorites. Only 4 votes needed to get on the list.Dogs’ lives are too short. Their only fault, really. – Agnes Sligh Turnbull
It was hard the first time, with Max, and this is going to be worse, because Mya is not sick, just old. It is a difficult thing to decide. When is it time to end the life of your friend?
Mya is family. She has lived with me in six different homes, in four cities, and in the last thirteen years, I have spent more time with her than anyone. She is the constant of my adult life.
Fourteen is old for a big dog. Her hearing is going, she has bad teeth, and arthritis. She always slept in my bedroom, even when I had to carry her to the second floor, but after three years, she grew weary of even being carried, so she sleeps downstairs now. Sometimes I still carry her up and down the five steps of our porch to go outside, but I’m not always home, and even those are becoming insurmountable. She stumbled coming in today. If I wait much longer, she will fall down.
This is my decision. I do not know how I should tell Michelle, but she knows it is coming. I gave Mya a bath today so she would be nice and clean, and Michelle has noticed my added moments petting her. She suspects I have a plan so she asks about it. “Maybe this week,” I tell her. She pulls back as if I slapped her across the face and begins to cry. “Well, maybe the week after,” I add. To her great credit, she knows this is hard, and tells me to do whatever I think is best.
I have no idea when the right time is. No matter when I decide, it will feel too soon. If I wait too long she will suffer, or I will miss it. I do not want her to die in the night downstairs all alone. This is my chance to say goodbye and it is the least I can do for this creature who has been my faithful friend.
We have started having private conversations about this, Mya and I. She nudges me more often lately, so I will scratch her head, and when no one else is around, I talk to her. Mostly I say, “I know my girl. I’m just trying to work up the courage.”
I write it down, because it helps, and I cry. I hope to send her out with a smile on my face and no smell of sadness on me. I want to get all the tears out of the way, but there will not be enough time for that.
It is time to put my dog down. I make an appointment and then ask Michelle to exercise her veto power. Instead, she arranges to take the afternoon off so we can take Mya to the vet together.
The moment came too fast, as I knew it would, along with pain, guilt, and regret. I did the best I could, which provides me some solace. I laid down beside Mya on the bed I brought and cuddled up to her. As she left this world, I stroked her head, and for the last time, I told her, “You’re a good girl,” and I managed not to cry until she was gone.
Mya
Near this spot are deposited the remains of one who possessed beauty without vanity, strength without insolence, courage without ferocity, and all the virtues of man, without his vices. This praise, which would be unmeaning flattery if inscribed over human ashes, is but a just tribute to the memory of Boatswain, a dog. – Lord Byron
26 votes 
Loading ...
Having a baby begins the same way most things do, with a Google search. We investigate the options for fertility doctors in Victoria, BC, and make an appointment.
I have a poor memory for details, which is a polite way of saying I am both unobservant and forgetful. Michelle recalls things I rarely do, or never noticed in the first place. This frustrates her. We often have conversations she begins by saying, “Remember when…” but, or course, I don’t, so they end with, “It’s a wonder you find your way home at the end of the day.”
Many friends of Michelle and I have newborns. As we tour our old stomping grounds in Edmonton, visiting from house to house, it becomes clear that we are the victims of a conspiracy. Each baby contrives to portray its very best: smiling, giggling, interactive, and beautiful. Driving away at the end of the day, after five of these sessions, I look at my wife and say something for the first time in my life, “I want to have a baby.”
Chicken Pox never goes away, it lays dormant in your spine. It can reactivate and travel from its hideout along a nerve until it gets to the skin and makes you itchy and miserable, just like it did when you were a kid. This fascinating information I learned after the doctor informed me that I have a case of Shingles.
Michelle and I are out with friends at a crowded pub. We share a large table with a group seated at the other end. Sitting across from me is a woman that reminds me of Penelope Cruz. Partly, this is because we recently watched a movie she starred in, but there are definite similarities. She is petite with delicate Latin features and smooth skin. Her top plunges below a diminutive bust line to reveal the lace edges of her bra, which she manages to make look sexy and elegant. She is extravagantly beautiful.