Mathilda
I know everything that lives eventually dies – people, plants…dogs. But in a perfect world, we’d get to say when. And right now, I do not say when for my dog Mathilda. I need more time.
Don’t we all.
Mathilda is a little of this and a little of that, an odd-looking creature with floppy ears and a freakishly strong tail that will leave bruises on your shins when you scratch her back. Her nickname is Princess Rolls in S*it because she’s all about smells. The more disgusting, the better. She even rolled on a frozen dead fish once.
There is so much I could write about Mathilda, but the words I want are disconnected and free floating in my head and making no sense. I’m sad and I’m nervous and am pretty sure I will not sleep much tonight. Mathilda’s fate is in the hands of some very powerful drugs, and I can only hope and pray tomorrow morning she will walk.
I know death is part of pet ownership. But death seems forever away when you’re waiting for baby Rover to pee for the first time outside or when you’re throwing a yarn ball at Kitty. In 8, 10, or 15 years, you have to play God, and while I’ve made “that” decision before, I make a really lousy God.
Cooper, the late Bungee the Cat (Mathilda's best friend) and Mathilda
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