The Road Less Traveled

Last time I posted, I wrote that my mother-in-law’s dog, Lucy, was being put to sleep.  My wife said her mother asked the vets to dispose of the body; she didn’t want to see it.  On the way home from the theater Friday night, I had a lot of time to think as I stared at the half moon that resembled an lemon slice.  This made me think of how sour and bitter my day had been and I fought back tears.

For some reason, this whole situation reminded me of Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse-Five.  The aliens that Vonnegut writes about, the Tralfamadorians, do not look at life one day at a time.  They are able to see across all existence, from the beginning of time to the end.  So, when someone “dies,” they do not think of them as dead at all, because they know they still exist in the past.  Instead of mourning someone’s death, they simply say, “So it goes.”

I felt like Lucy’s death had that effect on me, at first.  I was sad, yes, but it just didn’t feel like she was really gone until later Friday night.  When my wife called to tell me she had been put to sleep, I just said, “Okay,” and I didn’t feel much of anything.  I felt like saying, “So it goes.”  Is that horrible?  It wasn’t until I thought about my mother-in-law’s reaction to Lucy’s death that I began to feel something.

I am worried my guinea pigs are dying, and it’s not the thought of their death that upsets me; it’s the thought of how my daughters are going to react that upsets me.  I do this often.  The thought of someone else’s misery, not my own, is what usually sends me over the edge.

However I see it, Lucy is gone.  No more little circles around my ankles when I come over to visit.  No more curling up in my lap, begging for a belly rub.  Lucy is gone.  So it goes.

My wife sent me a text a few hours ago to tell me that my mother-in-laws dog, Lucy, probably has cancer and is going to be put to sleep.  I can’t remember how long she’s had the dog, but I do remember that I am the one who picked it out for her.  My wife and I chose her from a group of young Yorkshire Terriers at my grandmother’s. 

She is a tiny teacup Yorkie and so lovable and sweet.  To see her is to instantly fall in love.  I normally hate the tiny ankle-biters, but every time I visit my in-laws, Lucy jumps up on my lap, rolls over, and demands to have her belly rubbed.

Cancer… man…  I’ve got a lot I could say about that.  One of my old friends’ mother died of lung cancer when he was a teenager.  One of my students had a brain tumor.  My grandpa had lung cancer and died of a stroke.  It’s been a drama twist used in nearly every television drama.  You wanna bring the tears, start a discussion about cancer.  But it’s real.

No more for now.

 Until later — “There’s no turning back now that you opened up to your mind.”

The smiles around our house are going to be gone for a while.  Our cat just attacked Bianca, my youngest, and left a big scratch across her neck.  This has been going on for a while.  As a 3 year old, Bianca is not ready for a pet.  She always wants to hold the cat, to carry him.  And if you know cats, you know they only go where they want.

So, inevitably, he has to go.  I love this cat, but Bianca will not leave him alone and he is not a passive cat who will just lie there and let her carry him around.  And her safety is more important.  If it were possible to lock him up until she is ready to understand, I would.  But that’s not fair to him, or healthy.

So, in honor to Sir Lancelot (that’s the cat’s name) here is a pic of him when we first got him: