My name is well... That’s not important.
I lost my dachshund last night. She was fifteen years old overweight, had seizures, and was incontinent, but she owned my heart.
My wife doesn't want another pet, but what do I do with this love?
This is just a short note to you ‘cause I knew you’d understand.
The day my bloodhound died, I was away in Birmingham for work. Ellie Mae was thirteen, she’d been sick the morning before I left town.
We‘d taken her to the ER. They gave her meds, stabilized her, and it looked like she would make a full recovery.
The next morning, I kissed Ellie’s long face and left for Birmingham to tell stories and jokes to a roomful of a few hundred folks.
It was a nice day. I remember it well. I drove along the highway, humming with the radio. The sun was shining. By the time I reached Camden, I got a call from my wife.
“Ellie’s not right,” she said. “Something’s wrong.”
I almost turned the
truck around, and maybe I should’ve. But I didn’t.
By the time I reached Selma, the vet was on the phone delivering bad news. When I reached Maplesville, my wife and I were already discussing sending her to Heaven, and my gut churned.
“I don’t want her to suffer,” said my wife.
“I don’t either,” I said.
“You think we should… I can’t bring myself to say it.”
“I don’t want her to suffer.”
“I love her so much.”
“So does that mean we should put her out of her misery, then?”
“I can’t do it.”
“But she’s in pain.”
“What do we do?”
“I dunno, but I don’t want her to…