On Friday we did the unthinkable and the inevitable.
We called our veterinarian and asked him to come to our house to put my Macha to sleep. In the end she didn’t have to endure the terror of a trip to his office and all the smells that frightened her so. She was home, on her soft rug.
I don’t even find the expression “sleep” a euphemism, because she was in my arms and the rest was gentle and kind and painless for her.
It was agonizing for us.
Macha was my dog — by her choice. She decided from day one that I was hers and we had a complicity that lasted the 15 years and six months of her life. She followed me everywhere even when her every movement was a supreme, sometimes painful effort. We always found comfort in each other. When I was sad she nuzzled up against me or plopped down across my feet.
She was a gift, literally and figuratively. A friend of ours had a beautiful, gentle German shepherd and one day I said to him, “If Yanna ever has puppies may I please have a girl?” When she was born — the only female in a litter of eight — he called to tell me she was mine. From that day forward we belonged to each other.
|Macha and Charlotte.|
She had a wicked sense of humor and every day no matter how many times I passed through our gate she always arrived with a “cadeau” — a leaf, a stick, a pine cone, occasionally an apple that fell off the tree. She thought that coming home should be celebrated no matter how many times we came home.
That’s the thing about the love of a dog. It’s pure and constant.
I was very lucky indeed, but for the moment I’m extremely miserable.