Larger Than Life

On Monday, November 3 we decided to put Tag the Dog to sleep. It's funny how you can wrestle with those decisions for so long and then suddenly, it's done. For months, really, the thought had been chewing at me. But like a lot of pet owners, I kept hoping nature would step in and make the decision for us. If only he would just pass peacefully on his favorite ottoman or at the foot of Abby's bed where he slept for so many years. I guess nature did step in, but in a way more cruel than I would have hoped. Over the years he lost some of his eyesight and his hearing. Then he got cancer and arthritis. Then he lost control of his back legs and finally, his bowels and bladder. Nature was talking; we just didn't listen.

But that Sunday I decided perhaps the best thing we could do for him was help him out of his pain. So Bryon and I took him to the vet and Monday morning, in a very peaceful, quiet and dark room, we put him to sleep. His dumb old heart beat three times and then he was still.

I do not miss the Tag who was so incapacitated he had to drag himself around the house. Or the Tag that couldn't get down two stairs to relieve himself. Or the Tag that, despite our best efforts, had a sour smell about him. But I miss the Tag that wanted nothing but to be around the family. I miss his old white face and those grateful, eager-to-please eyes. Despite his big old clumsy body, he was always quiet, unassuming and tolerant. He never nipped at the kids or fussed at the countless cats and kittens that have traipsed through our house. In the six years we had him he probably only barked half a dozen times.

He may not be on the ottoman or begging at the table or pacing, pacing, pacing until the kids are in bed, but his stuffed rabbit is still on the dining room floor. His collar is still in my car, and yesterday, I got a package in the mail. It was a paw print the vet took the day he died.