On Sunday, my Family and I had to spread ashes of my Mum’s little baby, Nika.
She was her Golden Retriever who contracted bone cancer in her hip at the age of twelve. This is an especially nasty place because the leg can’t be amputated to help with the pain. Chemo was an option, but we did that on my dog’s tumor and it’s pretty fucked-up. He didn’t make it either. My Mum waited as long as she could, until she wasn’t doing too well and put her to sleep. She said Nika looked at her on the way to the vet as to say she was ready.
I’ve always had pets growing up and they’ve always been very important members of our family. I guess having them is a great way to teach children about companionship, responsibility, and sadly death.
Some animals seemingly live forever though, even though when they do go it doesn’t seem like they lived long enough. For instance, I went to my Grandmother’s funeral for my 7th Birthday, while my first cat and dog (both born before I was) died while I attended High School. They were well-travelled animals. For my 7th Birthday, I remember sitting there in the church pew, dressed all in black. I wasn’t crying because I barely knew my Father’s side of my family in America until I was older. A large man looked down at me, and with tears in his eyes, placed his hand on my shoulder and said, “It’s going to be alright.”
Of course it is and of course it was.
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