Live long enough, and we’re bound to encounter challenges. With the help of a friend, Debbie Centeno (who runs this blog and this blog) uses her grief to help others…
I never knew how much a person could grow to love their pet. I wasn’t raised with pets, other than fish in a tank. And, there’s no way you can take them out of the tank to play, pet or cuddle. I just loved my aquarium but in a materialistic way. As an adult, I didn’t think about getting a pet since I was quite busy with three children. But, after my oldest son passed away, and my two other children were no longer small kids, my daughter convinced me to get a dog. So we opted for a rescue.
I made a few calls to see what dogs were available to adopt. We found a place that had a mama dog who had recently given birth to seven puppies – six female and one male. The male was the runt and was rejected by his mama, but I wanted a female. That was until we met the little guy, of course. All puppies were side by side sleeping on their tummies, except the little runt who was sleeping on his back almost on top of his sisters. He was much smaller than the others. When I saw him – well, I don’t know what I felt, but I just had to have him, so the volunteer picked him up and placed him in my arms, and that was it. I was in love. I handed him to my husband, and he felt the same way. So off we were with a 5-week old 2-pound Chihuahua/Dachshund mix. We named him Chewy, and it suits him well.
Chewy is now 6-years old and 20 lbs. I can’t imagine life without him and don’t regret having followed my daughter’s advice. He is the most loving, spoiled brat ever who stole our hearts. I know he’s not human, but for me, he’s my baby.
Debbie Centeno is a wife, a grieving mom, an accountant, and a travel blogger. Learn more about her here and here.
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This morning I stayed in bed till late. I was awake, but I didn’t want to get up to a house without Pierre in it.
Yesterday I had to put my dog down. Such a gentle euphemism for murder. To put one to sleep. My dear, dear dog-man trusted me, yet I tricked him. First by lulling him into thinking it was a normal day by asking my husband to roast a chicken at home that delighted his nose and soothed his belly. But afterward a vet arrived. She knotted a tourniquet at his rear thigh, shaved an area below it, and injected a sedative. His fitful gasping evened, his pain-blinded stare softened. Amid caresses and loving murmurs, the vet administered a second shot to finish him off.
My dear Pierre at 9 months old.
But Pierre lingered within his peaceful half-sleep. So another shave. Then a third shot to a different leg. That one finally killed him.
Nicer ways exist to frame this, but my heart won’t listen to the many fine arguments for how, whether, and when.
No, I don’t know of a better way to have done it. When his kidneys began to fail, and arthritis increasingly ravaged his days and nights, I promised us two things; he’d never take another trembling ride to a vet, and he’d never be wet again (he was a Labrador mix one-of-a-kind who hated water).
Fortunately, we could afford to have a vet to visit our home for those final injections. Fortunately, I could be with Pierre, my sweetest, most uncomplicated of friendships and loves. Fortunately, he’d lived a good long life, as dog lives go.
Pierre at 8 weeks old.
All the same, this was the awfullest decision I hope ever to make.
Life is beautiful, merciless, humbling.
Pierre (right) with his twin sister.
As much as our recent time together — these months of arranging throw rugs, moving furniture, closing doors so he wouldn’t get tangled among legs or be locked into rooms or slip and not be able to get back up, all which upset him to no end — these months of his hobbled struggle to follow me everywhere and to share walks with his sisters even though he’d fall within a few steps from home — this stoic period when, despite his waning appetite, he’d eat all that my family hand fed him while I experimented with healing remedies and weight gaining foods — this era when we set ramps and nudged him up and I learned the trick to gathering his 55 pounds into my arms to navigate down — these weeks of carrying him outside to pee in the middle of the night because the shame of soiling his diapers showed naked in his eyes (debilitated kidneys need volumes more water to compensate)…
Pierre (right) in better times.
and even though yesterday was the worst, today not a whole lot better…
I am thankful for every moment we shared. Hopefully, he knew he was loved…
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Who’s attractive? What’s chic? Always it’s a good time to embrace our humanity and our uniqueness — but now is better than ever. Hoping Kanigan’s post makes you smile like it did me …
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Join my private positive FB group page. I’m hoping to connect with other positive/motivational/inspirational bloggers. We can collaborate and share our blog posts:Your Best Self.
When I (da-AL) happened upon Belgian blogger Denzil’s lovely site, I could hardly believe it — I was the first to comment there! Yes, it is new, but it so beautifully filled with joy and heart that I doubt it will remain a secret for long …
Photo by Denzil Walton
I know that walking in my local forest is good for my body. It’s good for my heart – it gets the blood flowing. It’s good for my lungs – it gets the air circulating. It’s good for my muscles – it tones them up.
But good for the soul?
Surely, to refresh my spirit I should head towards my local church or cathedral, not to my local forest?
Photo by Denzil Walton
Don’t get me wrong: if you like to visit a magnificent cathedral to get a spiritual lift, that’s fine. You might be enthralled by the architecture and the stained glass windows. You might be impressed by the flower arrangements. You might marvel at the beautiful sounds of a choir. All of these things might lift your soul and help you see the glory and wonder of the divine – whatever name you give it.
However, for myself, my cathedral is my local forest, with the enormous trunks of ancient beech and oak trees rising up and over my head. With its canopy of green leaves forming the roof. Instead of stained glass windows, I see the delicately painted wings of butterflies and dragonflies. Instead of bouquets and vases of cultivated flowers, I see wild celandines, wood anemones and foxgloves. My choir consists of the sweet warbling of the blackcap, the drumming of a black woodpecker, the bark of the roe deer.
Photo by Denzil Walton
And just as you might enter a cathedral and experience a touch of heaven, I walk in a forest and experience the wonder of creation. And it lifts my spirits.
I’m not one for New Year’s Resolutions. Actually, if you read one of my blog posts, I even recommend postponing them to Spring!
But if you are into resolutions, here’s one you might like to consider.
Resolve to visit your local forest regularly throughout the year – maybe once a week or month. Experience its peace and beauty. Take time to stop and look at the wild flowers. Listen to the birds.
I am sure you will come out with a refreshed and rejuvenated spirit.
Denzil Walton blogs on walking and cycling in Belgium at Discovering Belgium. His new blog is called Life Sentences, which he describes as “random, positive and life-affirming musings on various topics and experiences.”
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Such is the case with Mike and the Gang. Recently they wrote a post for Happiness Between Tails to help readers understand a bit about dissociative identity disorder.
Road to The Wonder Woods 
Media Credit: Pixabay
“Fake it ’til you make it.” Smiling puts you in a better mood. Media credit: Pinterest 
Smiling decreases stress! Media credit: Pinterest 
Smiling is contagious. Media credit: Pinterest. 
Happiness Between Tails by da-AL 