Scout

This is the only picture I have of Scout. She's the one facing away from the camera. In her old age she spent a lot of time lying down in the sun, and the cats, particularly La Tigra, found that convenient for shade or warmth, depending on the season. Her legs had been failing her more often; sometimes she couldn't stand unassisted. Her eyesight and hearing were going, and my parents think that her mind was going too, but then, Scout was always a little eccentric. I think that with her senses and limbs failing her, she had a tendency to panic more often, that's all.

My parents took Scout to the vet's office to put her down today. As the temperatures started increasing, hitting the hundreds out in the country, where my parents live, Scout was suffering. Yesterday, they tell me, she was so wiped by the heat that she did not move for six hours. This morning they made the decision to have her put down. Temperatures are only going to get hotter, and they didn't want her to suffer through another Texas summer. They didn't think she would survive it. I don't think she would have either.

Now Scout and Max are dead. It's eerie, because I was just thinking of Scout yesterday, and specifically how I didn't want to be there when she died. There was a mote of fear in me whenever I went home and saw her, older, more frail, that she would die while I was with her. I've been afraid of this ever since Max died. I was alone with her when her body started to fail her, and the fear in her eyes...

Max and Scout were puppies together, and now that they are both dead, it's easier to picture that time again, when they were both so small: Max bouncing around with energy, Scout sleeping all the time. Max would lick everyone and everything; she loved everyone. In fact, that's one of the reasons we got Scout: Max wasn't a very effective guard dog. Scout, it turned out, wasn't much better. She was lazy and timid. Max would run up to the gate barking and wagging, Scout would sit back by the house, letting out a high bark every so often, letting her presence be known, but staying where she could retreat to safety if necessary. When she was inside, she would sleep in the strangest positions, on her back and twisted, falling out of chairs, hind end on the sofa and head on the floor. She'd make funny whimpering sounds. We had a German exchange student once who taught her some German.

They were good dogs. I'll miss them.

Poetry later.

For more tears, Google Image search Chocolate Lab and German Shorthaired pointer. I wore myself out just looking at the things.