Unsatisfying Vengeance

Dearest Rachel –

It wasn’t all that long ago (as recently as the wee hours of Sunday morning, in fact) that I would take Chompers out at what I considered to be late at night – which is, as you know, anytime after 10:30 – and prepare him for bed, with all the usual bedtime treats, Only to have them wake me up again just before one and then sometime after two needing to go out and pee yet again. Not only that, but I never had to set an alarm, as he would wake me up between six and seven both to pee again and to insist upon breakfast (which I generally resisted as best I could until at least seven).

This morning, by contrast, after having woken him up to go out a little after midnight last night, I was awake on my own by 7:30 (at least, that’s what my alarm clock said, which means it was probably somewhere more like 7:15), and he was still socked out on the floor – despite the fact that I’ve laid out blankets across your side of the bedroom, he insists on spinning around until none of them are underneath him. Since he hadn’t done anything when I had taken him out at midnight, I picked him up, took him outside, and slipped him into his harness practically before waking him. Not gonna let him pee inside the house if I can help it.

It’s a weird form of revenge. And there’s a little satisfaction in it, either. There’s no point in taking out your frustrations on a creature with the mentality of a two-year-old, anymore than you would take out revenge on a two-year-old.

And you have to clean up your act when you have a child. You can’t come home from a night of drinking and go, “Here’s a little twist; Daddy’s gonna throw up on you!”

It’s doubly bad to take things out on a senior citizen like Chompers; I might as well snatch some old guy’s cane and hit him on the head with it. As it is, the old boy appears to be down to his last leg; even with a harness (and that was troublesome in its own right this morning, as for a while there, he didn’t seem to have his left back leg slipped in beyond the knee), his left front leg didn’t seem to be supporting him. I worry that he won’t be able to make the weekend while I’m gone. I’ve arranged for Ellen to come over again, and I know she wouldn’t take any unilateral steps to bring him to the vet for a final trip except under the direst of circumstances, but you never know.

I’m starting to reconsider his trip to the groomers that I scheduled for tomorrow. It may well be that all I’m doing for him is allowing him to be (as the song goes in Sweeney Todd) “sent to his maker impeccably shaved.” On the other hand, I thought that same thing the last time I took him there, and he’s still going. So, what do I know?

As it was, it took the better part of forty minutes for him to pee this morning – and this is after not having done anything even at midnight last night. It’s getting worrisome. But at the same time, he still eats as greatly as ever, so he clearly hasn’t given up yet. As long as there is food for him to eat, there is reason for him to cling to life. Which means he may stick around nigh indefinitely, as there will always be food.

We’ll just have to hang on, and see how things go. I do hope you appreciate the fact that I’m trying to keep taking care of him; you know full well just how at sea I am about doing this.

So continue to wish me luck, honey. I’m going to need it yet.

Published by randy@letters-to-rachel.memorial

I am Rachel's husband. Was. I'm still trying to deal with it. I probably always will be.

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