Thanks, Mom, for making me cry today

A while ago my mom gave me the book "Rescuing Sprite" by Mark Levin. It's been in my diaper bag for a couple months for me to pull out when Dexter is sleeping and I am parked somewhere. It's a good book for that because it's small, and fairly mindless reading, so it's easy to pick up at any time. Which I did today, for a good hour while Dexter napped (yay!). And I read about this dog, Sprite, who this guy adopted from the Humane Society. And had for 2 years. And then had to put down because the dog was old and sick. So there I am, crying my eyes out in the parking lot of our townhouse unit, baby sleeping in the back seat. And I was STILL crying when I brought the baby inside to nurse. The baby, by the by, doesn't like sniffling noses. Too distracting. Sorry, baby.

While stories of having to put dogs to sleep always make me cry, it's particularly painful now, when my own 17 year old, grey, deaf, cataract eyed, arthritic pup lies sleeping under the Pack-n-Play. She's fine. Really. No threat of her dying any time soon. But, regardless of any "you WILL live forever, dog" pact I may have with the old girl, I know that eventually she's going to die. And I likely will have to make the decision to put her down. And that's not something I relish having to do.

Sure, I've gone through it with other animals. Our first family dog, Tee-tah, died when I was a kid. I honestly have no recollection of how she died. Our next dog, Toby, was put to sleep in the basement. I wasn't home. I think my sister had to deal with that one. My dog ate my guinea pig, but Dad didn't let me see the carnage. My Samoyed, Whitby, was put down after liver failure. I was on vacation. My other Sammy, Nika, was put to sleep because of cancer. I was living in Virginia. We've had a plethora of cats come and go, or just suddenly disappear. I've sent horses off in vans, knowing they were not coming back. I held a student's horse when we had to put him down after he broke his leg. I've called the bulldozer guys to come dig a hole to bury a horse. So I've seen it. I've dealt with it. I know there's a circle of life. I know that CoCo won't live forever.

But it's different with her. She's MINE. She's not the Cowan family dog. She's MY dog. She goes to work with ME. She rides in MY car. She follows ME around the barn. She tentatively licks MY baby on the face. She sleeps in MY bed (granted, not usually on my side. She sleeps on John's side. He's a pushover).

And, when the time comes, it's not going to be easy. I don't know what I'll do. I won't know how to cope. I won't know how to strike the balance between helping the dog and not going to extreme measures. Because on one hand, she's a DOG. I don't see spending thousands of dollars to save a DOG. But, on the other hand... she's CoCo. She's not a dog. She's a small person, wrapped up in brown fuzz, with a wet nose and bad breath.

So, thanks, Mom. Good book! :-) What shall I put in my diaper bag next? Maybe "Horse Miracles" or "April 16 - The Virginia Tech Shootings" or "Angel Horses." All sure to make the hormonal post-partum mom cry in the parking lot again. Maybe I need to start packing Playboy in the diaper bag.

PS - I shall now pass this book on to Christie Zukor to read. Because that's what I do with dog books that make me cry. You're welcome! I'll send it down with People magazine's SPECIAL DOUBLE ISSUE! 100 Most Beautiful People! God bless Gianna for keeping us supplied in mindless drivel. It helps pass the time when I am pumping milk out of my boobs at 5AM.