EddyTeddyFreddy-what does it mean that he “foundered?”
Quite honestly, I cannot imagine this. To me, the horror of seeing my beloved pets in pain was far worse than the guilt and sorrow I felt at having to put them down.
The ONLY case, where it was extremely hard, was with Tess. Some of you may recall a few years ago that we had a little kitten with a crippled front leg. It turned out she had peritonitis and had to be put to sleep. (I had a meltdown in the Pit about it, several trolls banned, pretty much a trainwreck). But even in that case, I hated seeing her sick and even then you could see she was starting to have trouble breathing, and her abdomen was swollen to almost twice its size.
With our Westie, Lassie, who was almost fourteen, death came as a relief. One day, she just crashed on us. Kept throwing up over a period of twenty-four hours, and we had to take her to an emergency animal hospital. They put her on pain killers in their ward, and my mom drove back to pick the rest of us up. When we got there, and they brought her into the exam room, it was so obvious she was in pain, even though she was really glad to see us. She was really suffering. While we waited, I started thinking that I just wanted the vet to come in and get it over with, because watching her suffer was just horrible. Death was almost a relief. Yes, it hurt, but it hurt more to see her in pain.
Then, there was Fluffy. I got her when I was six, after my mother’s mean old cat, Meow died of bladder cancer at nine years. Fluffy was there for me through my nightmares (I always felt safer when she slept on my feet at night), she was there when I was getting picked on in 7th grade, when I went through my depression, everything. And then when she was sixteen, she had a stroke that left her blind and increasingly deaf. But, in spite of that, she was still a happy (though demanding and imperious) feline, still begging for the milk from my cereal every morning, and she stayed confined to the kitchen/dining room. (Which she KNEW her way around, trust me!)
But a few months later, one day, my mother came to me and told me that Fluffy had had another stroke. This one left her mostly paralyzed, and my mother didn’t think she’d survive the day. So, we kept her comfortable, wrapped up in one of her favorite blankets, and held her and cuddled her, and made her as warm and comforted as we could.
She went into a coma that evening and died at 2 am the next morning. If she hadn’t, we WOULD have taken her to the vet’s, but we really didn’t want to traumatize her with a visit if we didn’t have to. (Earlier that year she had had a really horrible throat infection as well as several bad teeth and when we took her to the vets, she HATED it. We thought she’d be a goner then, but she rallied and came back, even younger and sprier than ever)
But even though losing her hurt like hell, even though I cried for weeks and even though I’m STARTING to cry just writing this post (and it’s been four years since she passed away), her dying was a relief, because I knew she was out of any pain and misery. No, she wasn’t suffering like Lassie or Tess, but it hurt to see the cat who used to jump from the fridge to the floor without breaking a sweat barely able to move and who fell when she tried to get up to use the litterbox.
So these people, not only are they selfish, but they must not have hearts. At all. At least now I can think of Fluffy jumping up on the counter to steal someone’s lunch. I can remember Lassie wagging her tail and getting all excited when my dad came home from work, or Tess racing around on her three little legs. I don’t have to have those memories replaced by them gasping out their last breaths and whimpering in pain.
(Sorry if this is long-winded, but it’s a subject that really irritates me.)