Grimness

This is what I put on Facebook:
If I had a terminal illness and were wasting away, with the quality of my life slowly declining, I’d want to be put out of my misery. What a blessing. Yet when I do that for my dog, I feel like a traitor. My loyal hound Maysie took a one-way trip to the vet today. With my last two dogs, the end was very near and I should have ordered the injection sooner. This time, I acted sooner and it feels no better. They give us so much and it is so hard to know how to do right by them. I know it’s nothing compared with Manchester, but it is a shocking thing to make that damned appointment and carry it through. Bye Pumpkin Face, Her Highness, HH, Maydog, crazy Maysie.

The above taken at the top of Cave Hill, when we were eating sandwiches.

My last winter in Pennsylvania. She kept me company while I dug out the car. Telling Maysie to stay off the furniture was...

... pretty pointless.

Maysie was 13, a red tic coonhound. We adopted her from Main Line Animal Rescue when she was four. She died after the onset of kidney failure and a growing tumour in her tummy. The highlight of her life was probably the day she treed a racoon in a rotten chestnut next to the stream in Chester Springs, Pa. She also enjoyed taking off after deer in the woods.

I think this was the first time the cat and dog shared close quarters. We kept them separated the first few years because the cats ran from her and she gave chase fairly aggressively. At some point the cats stood their ground, used their claws, and Maysie learned her place. Note my Bill and Darby statues keeping an eye on us.
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