Tuesday, September 30, 2014
My poor Joe
He's a good boy. He would never miss the box intentionally. It must have hit him very suddenly.
Yes, it was a drag to have to haul my futon cover down to the laundry room first thing Monday morning. No, I don't have the stink completely out and yes, it's creeping me out. (Note to self: Let's see if those Febreeze commercials are telling the truth about pet odors.)
But most of all I'm worried about him. He's very old. He's still social and affectionate, and as recently as Sunday I saw him playing with Reynaldo (albeit only for a few minutes), so I don't think he's in any pain.
But he's dying. Fading away. I know it. I see it. If he has diarrhea again, or exhibits any signs of discomfort, I'll bundle him and haul him to the vet.
But we're back to this again: Am I doing it for myself or am I doing it for Joey? He's approximately 18 years old. That would be 87 in human years. He hates going outside -- the street sounds and smells terrify him.
But I love him. I love reaching out and touching him, feeling his purr and curly paws against me. I love his gentle soul. I don't want to lose him.
But I don't want him to hurt. Ever. I see that as my job, to keep his life as safe and comfortable as possible.
I hate this.