This girl. Sigh.
At the time this post goes up, I’ll be delivering her to our vet for another procedure: today she’s having a cyst removed from her front leg. We’ve visited our vet more frequently in the past eighteen months; that happens as a dog (or anything, really) gets older. It’s hard. She’s ten and a half.
My other beagle (the late, great Bijoux) lived to be thirteen. She was my first baby: we brought her home two years before D was born. I spent the last three years of her life panicking over each and every health incident (and in between them!) because I was worried that, each time, THAT would be it. It’s a terrible way to live and I swore I wouldn’t do that again, and I haven’t…so far.
The dropping off part on days like these, though. That kills me. Anxiety runs high and the tears are just under the surface as I hand over the leash to one of the vet techs. The great thing is, I adore my vet. Coincidentally, he attended vet school with Bijoux’s vet, who was an angel on earth. I have always loved that connection; it feels cosmic in a way. I love his “bedside manner” and trust him completely. So why the anxiety? It’s that fear of loss. That’s what happens when we open up our hearts to someone, whether it’s a fellow human being or a furry family member.
Logically I know she’s going to be fine today. It’s conveying that idea to my heart that is tougher, and I’ll be working on that every single minute until I get the phone call that says she came through just fine and I can pick her up anytime after 3:00.
Send a good thought her way, would you? (Mine too, if you don’t mind.) Thanks.
Edited at 7:30 p.m.: She’s home and although looking quite pitiful (I would be, too!), she’s going to be just fine. Thank you for keeping her in your thoughts today, everyone!