I’m not a dog person. I don’t like to be licked, slobbered on, or jumped on. I don’t want dog hair all over my furniture or on my clothes or in my house. I don’t hate animals; I’m just not that girl. I do not call my dogs, “fur babies, ” or treat them better than my own children. They are fed, played with, sheltered, and protected. I am not inhumane; I’m just not a dog person. (Before everyone out there who IS a dog lover freaks out…please keep reading).
I fully respect those who love their animals so much that they allow them to sleep in their bed, eat from their table, bathe them as they would a person, buy them clothes and toys galore. Maybe I’m just jaded, but I’m not one of those people.
However, there is one dog I loved. Loved, past tense. He died last week, on Friday at 3:30pm. His name was Biscuit, and he was my dog. He wasn’t silly like other dogs, jumping around or licking on you. He sat still, never made a fuss, and loved, LOVED, to shake your hand. Every time he met someone, he shook their hand. ( I think he was a tiny human, in this respect.) He was a yellow lab, but he hated to swim! He didn’t ride in the truck (this was beneath him, obviously). He would not come inside unless we begged him to, during the cold nights. He was a good dog. He protected our children with a vengeance. He would even get in between them and us to keep us from playing too rough with them. I brought him inside. He got extra snacks, and I would always save him a plate when we went out to eat. My dog.
He became sick, so I took him to the vet, honestly thinking he needed nothing more than some antibiotics and fluids. The boys gave him hugs as we loaded him into my car and said goodbye. I brought him into the vet, and asked what her initial assessment was. “Possibly a toxin of some sort. He has crackles in his lungs, so I think we should run some labs.” I know what crackles are. Of course, run the lab work. Find out what is wrong with my dog. As I sat there waiting for what seemed like forever (literally only 10 minutes), I just prayed. When the vet walked back into the room, I kept telling myself, “If she sits down beside me, it’s bad. Don’t sit down. Just stand there.”
She sat down. She showed me his blood work. He was in DIC, and his body was shutting down. I cried, ugly cried. I couldn’t breathe. I’m not a dog person, and the one dog I actually like is dying. She brought him out to me, so I could sit with him for a bit. I held his paw, got eye level, and told him to “shake” one last time. He tried. I kept eye contact the whole time and told him what a good dog he was. He began to bleed out and show intense signs of pain, so I yelled for the Dr to come back. She gave him some medicine, and I held him as his heart stopped beating.
The amount of crying I did and the pain I felt is absurd. I had to come home and face 3 little boys who wanted to know where Biscuit was. I told them that he was too sick and had died at the vet’s office (in between sobs). Buddy asked me, “When will Biscuit be done dying?” I had no words for him. I just stared at him blankly, like an idiot. Thankfully, Andrew told him that Biscuit is in Heaven and can’t come back to us, but we will see him when we go to Heaven. Thank God for older brothers! We buried Biscuit that evening, and the boys drew him pictures to bury with him. I sobbed the whole rest of the day and night. I still cry a few times a day. I know it will get better, but right now, it hurts.
It’s taken me a week to even type this. I never thought I’d be this girl who falls into depression over the death of an animal. But I have! I can hardly look out the window without tearing up. I don’t know what I will do without my Biscuit. I don’t feel I have the right to fuss, because I’m not a dog person. I’m not. But Biscuit wasn’t just any dog; he was mine. And I miss him.