Over a sandwich (not toasted), Walt and I continued our conversation.
"A bad thing that happened this Spring was I had to put my dog down".
"Oh Walt", I said, "that's sad. How old was he?"
"He was 23. He was a shepherd."
"Twenty-three!! That's amazing!" I said. "I've never heard of a dog living to 23!"
"Yup. Twenty-three. And it weren't his back end that went. It was his front end. I knew he had to go cuz he started to whine. And he never whined before so I knew he was in pain."
"The hardest thing was to get him to stay in the hole soes I could shoot him". I had to give him a little treat you know".
He must have seen the look of shock on my face as I absorbed this last bit of information, because he said a little defensively:
"Well, I wasn't going to pay some vet $200 to do it". I dug the hole last fall cuz I knew he wasn't going to be around much longer."
Somehow, the thought of the dog's pre-dug grave is the saddest thing of all.
I also discovered Walt doesn't like lettuce in his sandwiches. Only in salads.
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I'm speechless. Really, I am.
ReplyDeleteI was too for a moment. But this is the way "country" people have always dealt with their animals. Vets are a luxury. At least he had the guts to do it. I'm sure lots of dogs are just driven away from home and abandoned. Too sad.
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