Babe

Right after my father died in 1993, I bought my stepmother a cute little dog to keep her company. She named the dog Babe.

Good Lord, she doted on that little dog.

If the truth be told, I wasn't overly fond of Babe. She was a one person dog, and not overly friendly to anyone but my mom. Be that as it may, mom loved that dog beyond words.

In recent years, the dog's health began to fail. She developed diabetes, requiring insulin, she went blind too. Still though, the dog owned the house, and acted that way.

Yesterday, my mom called me very upset. Babe was sick, and needed a vet. I got in my car and ran down to mom's house. As soon as I walked in, taking one look at the dog, I knew this dog was a short time away from doggy heaven. I told my mom, "Ma, the dog is dying. You can't let her suffer this way." To which she immediately replied, "I will not put her down."

Anyway, we found a mobile vet who said he could be at the house in 2 hours. Sure enough, 2 hours later he pulled up in this enormous motor home (a mobile office, really)

My stepmom & I brought the dog out to the "office," and as she carried the dog up inside the thing, the vet said quietly to me, "This dog is very very sick."

The vet did the prerequisite tests; blood, temperature, etc. The exam and blood tests took about 30 minutes. As he began reading the test results, it went like this: The vet says, "Her blood sugar is off the charts, her white blood cell count is so high, I can actually see the white cells, her kidneys aren't working, she has no muscle control in her legs. She is deathly ill."

At this point, mom is sobbing. I'm holding Babe in my arms, and her little tongue is hanging out of her mouth.

The vet says to mom, "I never tell people what to do with their pets, but in this case I think you should think about saying goodbye to Babe. She is so sick, I don't think anything will save her, and she is suffering tremendously. If she were my dog, I'd do what's kindest for her and that is to euthanize her."

My mom started sobbing harder.

She asked all kinds of "What If" questions; What if antibiotics work, what if we do nothing - how long will she last, what if she just needs insulin? And on, and on.

Meanwhile, I'm still hold the dog in my arms, and she's struggling for each breath.

Finally, FINALLY my mom decides to sign the euthanize form. So, she signs the paper, and proceeds to say goodbye to the dog. This takes forever. She doesn't want to let go of the dog.

At this point, I have to get firm and insist she go inside the house. After what seemed like forever, she turned and left the mobile office and went in the house.

Now I'm still cradling the dog in my arms, and the vet is getting the paperwork done. Then he proceeds to prepare the fatal needle. As he's doing this, I realize that Babe has stopped breathing.

I said, "Um... I don't think you're going to need that needle. She's stopped breathing."

He says, "Put her up on the edam table, let me listen."

I put her on the table, he listens through the stethoscope, and as I already knew, proceeds to tell me that yes, Babe had died.

I tell the vet that he'd better go in the house and tell mom that the dog died on her own, because I knew she'd never believe me.

So, after all the wailing and weeping, I pay the vet and he goes on his way.

Now I have this dead little dog to worry about. My mom wanted her buried in the back yard. So I go in the house and find an old blanket. I lovingly wrap Babe real well in the blanket, and place the bundle out of site of the house. Then I get in my car and go to the local hardware store to buy a box and a shovel.

When I get back to mom's house, she's searching all over the place for the dog; convinced that she's still breathing, and worried that I'm going to bury her alive.

I acquiese, and show her that indeed, Babe is not breathing, and already stiff.

Now I have to go about the previously unrealized UNBEARABLY MISERABLE task of digging a grave. Let me tell you... I never realized how difficult a task it is to dig a hole 3 feet long, by 2 feet wide, by 3 feet deep.

I dug, and dug, and dug until I thought I was going to keel over from a heart attack.

Finally, I had a perfectly shaped grave dug.

I placed the wrapped dog in the box tenderly, and covered it. I asked her if she wanted to say any prayers before I put the box in the hole. She did.

Then I proceeded to lower the coffin into the hole.

At this point, I told her she probably wouldn't want to watch me fill in the hole. But she did.

And as I was breaking my back and pouring sweat, filling this hole back in, she said; "You killed my dog."

I said nothing, but continued with my job until it was finished. Then without a word, I got in my car and drove home.

I'm sure I will forgive her, but not today.