One of the things that I’ve appreciated as I “mature” is my ability to take on stuff I never
thought would be in my wheelhouse. Hanging blinds, laying a patio, riding a motorcycle, cleaning a gun, self diagnosing a pulmonary embolism.. you know. Adult shit.
Recently I’ve learned a new lesson. No-one tells you when you kill your dog. That’s some fuck-awful shit you have to figure out on out your own.
While this isn’t an everyday occurrence (unless you’re some kind of terrible monster or part of a dog rescue), it’s still something most pet owners have to deal with. Rarely does your pet ‘go to sleep’ after a blissful lifetime of sleeping, being loved on and posing for Instagram photos. Nope, for most pet havers at some point poor Leon, Binky or Mrs. Whifflepuss develops more ailments than you, and ceases to appear delighted at the prospect of another day.
This is while things get really tough.
In a world where you can Google anything, where you can learn how to extract your own teeth on YouTube or find a book while tells you how to overcome your inner monster, no one wants abet your life ending decision for Sir Francis. Your ‘dog of a lifetime’, companion through loves, moves, jobs, lonely days and scary camp nights..no-one wants any part of helping you make that decision.
Everyone has their own rule and some are willing to share, but overwhelming the message is ‘you just know’.
Except… except… you’re meant to ‘just know’ when you meet “The One”. You’re ‘meant to know’ when you’ve found a new job. You ‘just know’ when you’ve found the place you want to live or when deciding if someone is going to be a great friend. All situations I’ve failed at ‘just knowing’ about.
I think my ‘you just know’ button is defective.
So while I watch my dog with a hawk-like ferocity, sobbing into his fur when I know he’s sad, rushing him to the vet to stop the hurting, and delighting in his good days, I spend my time asking, looking and hoping this one, critical, heart breaking time, I’ll just know.