She's leaving us...

Emily

I love her and she's the best. calm, loving, cuddly, never loud or mean.

I'm not an animal person, but I love this dog. About a year ago, she got sick. Wasn't eating much, getting "sick" and just not looking good. So we took her to the vet. She had diabetes and her blood sugar levels were out of this world. It took the vet a week to stabilize her levels enough to send her home with us. And the insuline. 2 shots a day... and she HAS to eat immediately after the shot. Well, she's refusing to eat now. What do you do?

Our best guess is that she's about 13 years old. The humane society told us that she was two when Jeff picked her up in 2001. She was more like six. I think vets fall back on the 2 age frame to tell you that it's an adult dog.

As I said before, I am not an animal person. My heart is breaking for this little dog. We're going to take care of her. I appreciate that Jeff and I have always agreed on the principals of our pets and how to take care of them. No fighting or crying... just do what needs to be done. Jules is going to miss her... but she'll probably forget her before long. That is so sad to me... because she is the best.

Update: Jeff sent me this story that he wrote a couple of years ago. (In case you aren't aware, Jeff's a freelance writer - in his spare time - and is published frequently in the Dallas Morning News and Fort Worth Star Telegram.)

A Tale of Two Tails

Pets are family that you get to pick out, unlike the odd assortment of goofballs and misfits that you’re stuck with for real family. They’re like furry little family members, with their own furry little personalities. The personality you pick out is important. You don’t want to spend the next ten-to-fourteen years with a dog with an attitude problem (I say dog there because that is not an option with cats). But you don’t always really have a choice, sometimes they pick you out.

Here’s the phrase that brought Diablo (the gigantic orange tabby) into my family: Crazy Mike turned to me and said, “Whichever one of these kittens you don’t take home is gonna die.”

During my sophomore year in college, I decided I was ready for my first four-legged pet. I hadn’t had much luck with hermit crabs and other assorted tragic critters, but I figured a kitten would be a good fit for my wacky bachelor lifestyle. But apparently it wasn’t the right ‘season’ for kittens. I had no idea cats had ‘seasons’, I figured they just got it on whenever the mood struck. So after much effort searching humane societies, shelters, etc, I found an ad in the paper offering kittens for twenty bucks. My friend Crazy Mike and I showed up at what may have been the most wretched apartment I’ve ever visited. The owners explained to us in choppy English that the momma cat had taken a turn for the worse and couldn’t walk anymore, leaving these four-week old kittens to fend for themselves.

One of the kittens was trying to nurse on the sickly momma cat who looked nearly dead in the corner of the room. This was the point where I realized that we were no longer kitten shopping; we were going to save one of these sad creatures from imminent doom. I got the lively little orange boy, who later ended up completely squandering my savings in vet bills before I got him healthy. Now he’s the gigantic nine-year-old lion of a cat who rules my household.

Here’s the phrase that brought Emily (my goofball Chihuahua) into my family: I told the shelter clerk, “I want the ugliest dog you got.”

About four years ago, I decided that Diablo could use a playmate. I was still single at the time and felt our little family duo could use a third critter. I have a soft spot for shelter animals… it’s like death row for ugly animals. Sure, the cute little pets who can do cute little tricks will find homes. But if you’re missing an eye or a leg or something, you might as well have a puppy priest come in and read your Puppy Last Rights. So I decided that I wanted the ugliest dog I could find, one that would definitely be getting the puppy electric chair soon, or however they do it these days. I saw intelligent little dogs who stood up and pawed at the cage when I walked by, I saw adorable chubby little pups that were so cute it actually hurt to look at them, I even saw one dog filling out tax forms for people.

But in the back corner of one cage, there was this miserable little Chihuahua/ terrier mix with her back to the crowd. She had already accepted that nobody was going to take her home and wasn’t interacting with people walking by. When I tried to talk to her, she turned her face to me, showed her teeth and growled. Her eyes weren’t mean, though, they were sad and scared. I knew she was the one. As I filled out the forms, the shelter clerk whispered to me: “good thing you came in today for this one.” That day, Emily rode home from the shelter curled on my lap with her face buried in my armpit. Nowadays she can be seen sprawled out on my couch or wiggling on her back in the backyard grass with her chubby belly in the air, eyes squinted, blissfully living up her second life.