August 25, 2008
Originally published March 4, 2005
For years, my mom and dad had two dogs: Macho and Muppet. They were both Yorkies and they were damn good dogs. Macho wasn't afraid of anything except Muppet. Muppet wasn't afraid of ANYTHING.
Those little fuckers weighed less than a few steaks I've eaten, but they were bred to go down holes and catch live rats. They are smart, courageous little dogs. They may not be big in stature, but they have hearts like a lion. I loved those dogs.
I put both of them down, about two months apart, at the vet's office (Oh, MY! Beth should have a REALLY clever comment on this post). My dad was dying at the time, both dogs got cancer and my mama didn't have the heart to do it, so I did.
One at a time, I held them both when the vet slipped the needle into the leg-vein they use for the job. One quiet sigh and the lights went out. Nothing left after that but a dead dog and a lot of memories. I did that twice.
My father died and my brother and I bought "Fancy," another Yorkie, as a Christmas present for my mama. ($400 for a pup that would fit in my jacket pocket at the time.) Fancy has been my mama's companion for 11 years now, and she's dying of grief from what she sees happening to my mama. Yorkies are smart, emotional dogs, and I just hope that I don't have to do to her what I did with Macho and Muppet.
I like Fancy a lot.
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