I wish they’d stop talking about me as if I can’t understand a word they’re saying. I’m right here in the same room with them.
How insensitive! How insulting!
“She’s had a good life.” “We’ve done our part.” “Maybe she’s suffering more than we know.”
Stop it! I can’t stand it. I’m right here!
Sure maybe I have an accident here and there. I am old. That’s what old folks do on occasion. But, I’m not ready to go. Not yet. I have had a good life, mostly. And, sure they’ve done their part. Taking care of me, making sure I’m fed and warm at night. But, why now? Why are they so hell bent on killing me now? It is killing after all. Unless I die, say of natural causes, it’s still killing. They’re claiming it’s “merciful” for Pete’s sake. How is killing me, ending my life when I don’t want to die, merciful?
She looks at me and cries. She says, “I’m sorry.” and “I love you.” Apparently she thinks I can understand some things.
And him! The things he says about me. Calling me mentally challenged just because I don’t do what he wants me to do. Ha! It’s called passive aggressive asshole. I do what I want, when I want. I’m neither mentally challenged nor demented. Far from it.
She took me to the doctor the other day. You’d think a doctor with so much experience would know better than to talk about me when I’m in the room. Seriously. I couldn’t look at either one of them. I turned and faced the corner of the room. She said to the doctor, “Oh my God look at her, she won’t look at us! Do you think she understands what we are talking about?”
“No, of course not.” The doctor replied. “She’s just not happy to be here.”
I most certainly was not happy to be there while she poked and prodded me. Listening to my heart murmur and squeezing my bladder. “Yes I do understand you!” I wanted to scream. But I didn’t. I just sat with my back to them listening as they discussed the ‘situation’.
“Do you think I’m being selfish?” She asked, needing validation from the doctor.
“I’m not judging you if that’s what you mean.” The doctor replied. Though I think she secretly was judging just a little. “She’s definitely got issues and I understand it’s difficult for you to care for her at this point. It’s messy and gross at times.”
“But I mean, do you think it’s time? What would you do in my situation?” She persisted.
“Only you and your husband can decide. It’s really not for me to say.” The doctor replied, but I know if I were living with the good doctor she’d keep me around. I’m not that much trouble. I sleep most of the day and when I’m awake you’d hardly know I’m around unless I fart. The farting is more frequent, I’ll admit it.
When we returned home, they were talking. She said, “I just can’t do it yet. It’s not that bad. She still has some life left in her and I’m not ready to say good-bye.”
“OK.” He said. What could he say? “Just do it! Just kill her and get it over with!” No he wouldn’t do that. Too much blame on him. He couldn’t handle the guilt. No, it has to be a joint decision.
So it looks like I’ve got a reprieve for a while. I’m trying really hard not to make any messes. I haven’t peed myself for several days now. I’m on a roll. The farting – well – I can’t help that and they don’t really seem to mind. In fact, they chuckle when I pass that smelly gas.
She walks by me and pats my head. “Oh Sadie, you silly dog. I love you. We’re gonna keep you around a while longer, girl.”
Yes, she thinks I understand some things. And I most definitely do.