When I was five years old, our Golden Retriever, Jenna, gave birth to a litter of puppies. In taking care of the first pups born, the last two were neglected. My mother found them and attempted to warm and revive them. After hours, they both appeared to be dead. Continuing to try, we finally heard one start to make noises.

Thirteen years later, I had a best friend. We had named him Gabriel, after the angel. For all those years, he was the one I could tell anything to. The one I could cry with. He was always by my side - we spent nearly all our time together.

In the middle of his thirteenth year - my eighteenth - he started becoming very needy. He had to be with us 24/7, and panicked if he wasn't. Any time we left the house without him, we would come home to find the door handle knawed, base-boards ripped up and bloody (from him chewing them) - obvious signs of his frantically trying to come find us. At night, he would come to bed with me as usual, but he clawed and clawed at me, obviously terrified, but we had no idea why. I would pull him close and hold him, and he would rest for short periods of time, but eventually he would wake me up again. This went on for about two months. Combined with other health issues, my mother started to realize it was time to let him go.

I vehemently refused. I could not stand the thought of losing him. My arms were black and blue and red - new and old claw marks - and I hadn't slept much in that two months, but I still refused. About a week before my high school graduation, my mother told me that she had set the appointment and that it was time. She said it was unfair to make him go on, when he was clearly suffering so much.

Two days before my graduation, we took him in. The veternarian allowed us to have the procedure performed in our car, so he would be less afraid. For what seemed like forever, we held him and mourned, until eventually the cremators came. The man offered to take him, but I couldnt let him. I carried him to the waiting van, and laid him down. He was so limp. And so heavy.

For a long time, I slept with the little container of his ashes. I still keep them by my bed at all times. They say time heals all wounds, but I don't find that to be true. There's just a hole in your heart that slowly fills with scar tissue.
AntiveninKiss AntiveninKiss
26-30, F
2 Responses Dec 11, 2012

I was 14 when my horse broke his leg in a rabbit hole. I ran more than a mile back to the farmhouse but nobody was home - I knew what I had to do so I took dad's rifle and went back to my best friend and ended his suffering.
Everyone said I did the right thing and I remember dad saying I became a man that day ... I'm not so sure, because a little bit of me died that day too - I know what you mean about "scar tissue"

That's sad, we lost a really good dog on christmas day when I was about 7, he died from a tick :(

Ouch. I'm sorry. = At least I can say I know how you feel. -sighs-

Yeah pets are great, they all die too young

100% agreed.