I had to have my doxie Zoe euthanized a few years ago. She was sixteen and couldn’t walk any more, even to go relieve herself. I still remember her last few moments in the vet’s exam room, just after the tech had given her the injection via a tube. The last thing the pooch did was give a double-bark, her distress bark, as she felt the stuff take hold.
I know I did the right thing, maybe even later than I should have, but the sound of that bark lingers in my mind. If I were writing this on paper right now, it would be getting wet.
Sounds like this woman was born in the last generation (mine) to be taught that doctors were always right, so you must be wrong about your own machine.
(My father-in-law, for instance, of the 1920s generation, was once dismayed to find out that his doctor had to consult a book to get some information.)
I had to have my doxie Zoe euthanized a few years ago. She was sixteen and couldn’t walk any more, even to go relieve herself. I still remember her last few moments in the vet’s exam room, just after the tech had given her the injection via a tube. The last thing the pooch did was give a double-bark, her distress bark, as she felt the stuff take hold.
I know I did the right thing, maybe even later than I should have, but the sound of that bark lingers in my mind. If I were writing this on paper right now, it would be getting wet.