We Love You, Tex -- R.I.P.

Having a hospice dog means that the end comes sooner rather than later. But still we adopt, slide into denial and open our hearts much too wide. Sweet little Tex was euthanized Tuesday. Though blind, his eyes still gave him problems. We managed to fix one eye without surgery and then the other one went bad. His options were to live in constant pain or to have the eye removed.

Hospice meant that I would provide the ancient Chihuahua comfort and love, not more pain and suffering. We had a good six-month run, Tex and I. He hated all mechanical objects and furiously attacked the lawnmower, paper shredder, dust buster and vacuum cleaner. In order to engage me in play, he’d sometimes stand next to the carpet shampooer and stare angrily at it (Being blind, he could only approximate its location so might just as often stare balefully at the floor lamp or bed post.) He’d look to me, then back to the evil machine, then at me. With a sigh, I’d walk over and plug it in for a second so he could do a little ass-kicking on the noisy invader. I eventually swaddled it in towels so Tex wouldn’t break his teeth on the wheels. 

He marked constantly, humped every new client and bit me more times (accidentally) than I could count. But I still buried a little piece of my heart with him. He’s next to Lacy’s grave, so I figure they can growl and snap at each other for eternity.














My favorite definition of heaven: Where all the dogs you’ve ever loved are waiting for you.