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Craig's family dog, a Welsh Corgi named Rikki, was put to sleep today. Craig called me a few minutes ago and just sort of told me in passing, conversationally. I said, "Oh honey, I'm so sorry. Are you OK?"

There was a pause on the phone. And then, in a really incredulous tone, he answered, "Well yeah, why wouldn't I be?" I'm upset and it wasn't even my dog. Apparently Craig handles death much better than I do.

Rikki was part of his family since he was a kid. By the time I came on the scene Rikki was already pretty old and had to take medication for thyroid problems. I watched her decline these last few years. Sometimes her legs gave out on her, and breath was wretched most of the time. But she was the friendliest dog on the planet and I loved that dog to death, despite the fact that she shed on me like crazy the minute I touched her for a scratch.

Yeah, I'm sad.

To be honest, I've not really had the best of luck with pets. My first pet was a cat named Caesar, a Siamese cat with a bad attitude. I was five years old. One day my mother wanted to take a bath and I didn't want to come in the house, so she locked the door so no one could sneak up on her and kill her in the bathtub and let me out on the porch to play with the cat. I guess she really wasn't concerned about someone snatching me....well, what can I say, it was the 1970s. Anyway, a dog came by and scared the cat so I grabbed her and hung on so Caesar wouldn't run away. That damn cat went nuts and scratched me until dripping blood from my arms. Apparently my screams of terror were enough for my mother to rip herself from the luxury of a Calgon bath. The cat ran away, never to be seen again, and I was left with huge claw gashes up and down my arms, the scars from which are still visible today [I'm 31].

That's when I lived in the actual town of Berwick. After that we moved out to the boondocks where there were no neighbors -- just miles of farmer's fields. We averaged about two new cats every year. Usually the cat would somehow get outside and never return...likely run over by farm equipment or carried off by a fox. There were exceptions, of course.

Take, for instance, the case of a kitten we adopted who fell in the sump pump hole. We never knew what happened until we started to smell something nasty in the basement. I'm pretty much scarred for life by the sight of my mother reaching into the hole and hauling up the dead kitten.

Ah, the good old days.

Sassy is the pet I've had for the longest period of time. She's been with us for about four years now. I know I'll be a wreck when she dies. I can't even imagine what I would be like if a pet that's been in my family for years and years died. Maybe Craig is just being manly.

Posted by Nicole at June 05, 2003 03:17 PM | TrackBack