We just got home from an outing to find the St. Bernard whimpering on the floor in the dining room, looking longingly into the kitchen. This has happened before. He has a difficult time seeing the white kitchen floor due to his cataracts apparently, and for the first several days we lived in this house he would not walk to the back door unless someone was holding his collar.
I thought that he decided he once again was scared of the invisible linoleum, so I took his collar, urged him forward, and he just slipped and slid into a heap on my kitchen floor.
His hips are bad. They have been bad for years, but we have managed it with glucosamine. Admittedly I have been falling down on the job of giving him his pills lately, but this was worse than anything he’s ever experienced.
So there he was, quivering on my floor, trying for the life of him to get up and just sliding back down. I finally had to wrap my arms around his back, lace my fingers under his belly, and lift for all I was worth (which isn’t much). Between both of our efforts he is now outside, taking care of business and not falling down.
Now I’m quivering and whimpering a bit.
I want what all pet owners want for their old pets. I want him to go peacefully in his sleep. I have feared for years that his arthritis would someday get so bad that he couldn’t get himself around. We have had the discussion, you know, the discussion: “What do we do if our 150 lb. dog has to be carried outside?”
What? You haven’t had that discussion with your spouse?
We’re not there yet, but today as I was tugging and lifting and half carrying, it felt like we are getting too close to the answer.
So not a Mormon Monday post, I know. Hopefully later, if I have more time.
And George . . .