This was taken behind the fire house up in the mountains where I took the dogs each 4th of July to escape the fireworks. Lucky damn shot.
Hello, dear readers,
This past Monday, Sasha was euthanized. I hate that word, but the euphemisms strike me as varying degrees of childish when they come out of my mouth. I don’t judge anyone else who uses them, but for me… anyway, I digress to avoid the pain. As you may know, Sasha has been in a slow but steady decline for many years. She had arthritis, which just kept getting more severe. She had something called laryngeal paralysis, which messed with her breathing and, likewise, was just getting more severe. We kept re-balancing the medications she was on, and we’d achieve a new “normal” for her, but eventually she was in pain whenever she walked even on a fairly serious regimen of drugs. She rested comfortably enough, and she was her normal self, personality-wise (albeit an old, sleepy version of our puppy), but that probably just made it harder for me to accept that the time was coming for her. You could tell she was bored, having been a super-active dog her whole life. (Reminiscing about her, I remembered that there was a time when she got multiple 30-45 minute sessions of ***running*** after Chuck-It thrown balls each and every day.)
