Our beautiful little dog, Daisy, had to be put down this afternoon.
Fourteen years ago we went on a family trip to the dogs’ home. My sister, Jane, had saved up £50 through pocket money and christmas/birthday presents, and with Mum and Dad both working from home by then a dog was feasible. Daisy had been returned twice, once after six months for unknown reasons, and once after three days having “jumped a six foot fence to get at some chickens”. Another prospective owner saw us walking her and asked if we had definitely made up our minds. We had.
It looks like Daisy had a stroke a week ago, and since then she steadily declined. Yesterday she couldn’t stop walking without falling over, but was bumping into walls and doors. Mum took her to the vets, where they ran some blood tests. The results came back negative, which likely meant a tumor, and they kept her in overnight. I was in Solihull this afternoon when Dad phoned to say the vet had recommended she be put down as her quality of life was never going to improve. I met Dad, Mum and Jane there and we said goodbye. Daisy was in a terrible state, and it was awful to see. After a few minutes the vet injected her, and seconds later her eyes closed.
Daisy was a part of family life all through my school days, and she came on every holiday with us. I haven’t sobbed for a long time. I miss her.
To further demonstrate that fate’s a bitch, today is Jane’s 21st birthday.