Courage

First, a lump appears. This time under her front right armpit. It does not seem to effect her mobility, or lifestyle. You both live on.
    The tumor increases in size. Then, she starts having hearing problems. You discover another fatty tumor. This time in her left ear of all places. It must be blocking her from hearing. She's not following orders. She runs into walls, walks into and falls down stairs. Her vision must be going. She begins walking with a limp on her rear left leg. One day she develops a cough. A deep raspy morning cough of all things. You're surprised. How strange, you think.
    Akahugh. Akahugh.Akahughakakakaahahaughahaaa. And her front legs go out from under her. She's down on her chin, hind legs in the air, front legs spread flat. She must have arthritis now. Makes sense, now, why she's been having trouble with stairs, chairs, and movement, in general. Now you know. You have a sick best friend. You love the old bitch. You should have noticed. A sad friend. A fading friend. A sick friend. A dying friend.
   
    “Are you okay, little sister?” The answer is obvious by the thick tears coating the rear of her muzzle. You lift her with one hand. She shakes a little and regains her step. You gaze into her deep black eyes and see a light sparkle. Another tear forming.

    So, the day is here. Tasha's last day of suffering. There's an eerie mood lurking about on a day of imminent death, especially when it comes to animals. Animals know. They have a sixth sense of sorts. . . watch their eyes, watch their moods. Fred and Buddy the Elf, the other two dogs, know. There is no running, playing, or barking. There are no perked up ears or wagging tails. Fred and Buddy just mope around. There’s no charm in their stride. Tasha strolls by and stumbles into a hand with a sedative. The sedative is to make the car ride easier on her. She never liked riding in cars.
    In the waiting room, dogs yelping, cats prowling, veterinary assistants typing and explaining forms. Tasha sits in your lap. Her ears are down. Now, you know. Her name is called. You walk her into the room. Together, one last time, you both wait.
    Of course, then she perks up some. 
   
    Shame? No shame. Who could ever know that euthanizing a pet could be such an agonizing decision?
   
    Then the veterinary assistant comes for Tasha. It's time to prepare her for the big sleep.
Tasha is taken from you to an unfamiliar place with unfamiliar people. She knows something is happening, you can see it in her eyes. She whimpers. The assistant brings her back through the door and places her on the table. They've shaved her left hind leg to locate the right vein for the IV.  And, now you know.
    The assistant explained beforehand that this was the right decision. Why let her suffer any longer? She cannot make the decision herself. Look at all her ailments. She's sad. She's sick. She's dying. She's trembling on the table as the solution slithers through her body. Euthanizing man's best friend merely requires injecting enough of an intravenous anesthetic to cause an overdose. It's a slow painless death for Tasha.
    Her last moments of life begin. You comfort Tasha. Being certain to let her know that she is not alone. Her eyes get heavy, her breathing slows, her eyes blink slower. She is falling asleep. You cry together as Tasha succumbs to the big sleep. She begins to tremor. Her eyes dilate. The IV bag is still half full. This must be miserable for her, lying there staring at you, her human, her best friend, her killer, her saint. Ahakugh! Tasha relieves her bowels. She urinates on herself. Her breathing slows, deepens, moves at an uneasy beat. Her eyes remain open. The bag is empty. The big sleep has begun.
            
    You gaze into her still open eyes.  You see something different than normal, the darkness of the animal.