One of the first things I did this morning after I woke up was to step in dog
which is what I yelled and what I stepped in.
Jessie, Vergil, and Mr. Moon were all sitting in the kitchen and they looked at me, three pairs of eyes, trained on me.
"It's time," Vergil said. They all nodded. "It's time," they all said.
I just looked at them, made a pfft sound out of my mouth and gave them a look like, "Goddam DUH!"
They had already cleaned up other pees, poops, and vomits this morning. And had a discussion. And now they were informing me of their decision.
This week. I swear to you. This week those dogs are going to go to their final forever home and it IS time and if I'm waiting for them to truly be in pain then that's a mistake because they obviously are already in pain and they're blind and can't find their way out of a door and Dolly hardly eats and then she vomits and my god it's been time.
The thought of living in a house without them makes me feel as if I'm looking towards the light. Too good to be true. I'm even thinking of hiring someone, after they're gone, to come in and deep clean this house. It needs it desperately and it would be the best gift I've ever given myself.
So. We all had a nice breakfast of bacon and eggs and toast and the two biggest tomatoes that Jessie and Vergil brought with them, sliced red and gorgeous and juicy. Then Jessie and Vergil packed up and loaded their car and told the old dogs good-bye.
"You've been a good dog, Buster," Vergil said as he patted the old blind beast.
"Well..." I thought.
They got in the car after all our kisses and hugs and Greta joyfully loaded into the backseat, tail wagging, head between her two humans. They are going to put in a few more hours at their house before they leave town but will be hitting the road from Tallahassee.
And so it goes. They'll be back by the second week of October with all of their stuff and they'll move in and it will be a whole different chapter in all of our lives.
As will it be for me when Buster and Dolly are released from the bonds of this mortal existence. When we get them "deaded," which is our new favorite term around here.
The damn thing is, I'll probably cry like crazy when they go. Or maybe I won't. And maybe if I do, it'll be from sheer relief. No more pee and poop or vomit. No more forcing them to go outside to pee and poop (fruitless endeavor, obviously), no more taking them to the groomers, no more having furniture and pillows ruined by them. No more dog hair. No more having to get up fifteen times in half an hour to let them in and out of the back door if the air conditioner or heater is on and I can't leave the door opened. No more telling Buster to quit eating the cat food. No more being woken up by his bumbling and scratching around the room in the darkest hours of the night. No more buying thirty dollars of flea and tick treatment a month that doesn't even really work for them anyway.
Of course, no more watching Gibson hug Buster around his middle, leaning his head on him and kissing him either. Okay. That's about the only thing I'll miss. That's some sweetness right there. There's no denying that.
I'll get over it. So will Gibson.
All of us must die eventually, must eventually step on out of here except perhaps...Keith Richards.
Here's a little thing Robin Williams did about him on Broadway.
Rest in peace, dear Robin.
Don't ever die, sweet Keith.
Happy Sunday From The Church Of The Batshit Crazy.