I saw a dog die yesterday and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it...at least I don't think I could have.
He had already been hit by a car and caught up in the treads of a skidoo by the time he hobbled over to me. Although there was no blood, you could pretty much guess what was going on inside; serious internal bleeding I imagine. He was a puppy - no bigger than my chihuahua - and he just flopped down...a cute little bundle of white fur with caramel-coloured ear tips. Of all the things to start my week, why did it have to be that? I like animals, but I'm sure the death of a cat would never have the same effect on me as the death of a dog. They have been my companions for years and, though I'm no Cesar Millan, I don't think my life would be the same without them.
I've mentioned dogs in the north before...how they are usually viewed as a nuisance. They get this rap because there are always puppies popping up in whatever shelter the bitch can find. Although this poor thing never had a chance, I don't think it was due to neglect in this case. I think he had wandered away from his mom and littermates somehow and gotten lost. Poor thing. I wish I knew where he came from. I wish I knew whether the other puppies are doing ok.
Last night I went through all my pictures and found the ones of my chihuahuas when they were puppies; both could fit in the palms of my hands. Then I tortured myself by imagining them - at that age - mangled under some sort of vehicle. Then I gave them both a squeeze and curled up in a pile. Then we all fell asleep.