In Memory of Zeus
Today, Saturday, December 26, 1998 at 9:30 a.m. the vet euthanized my dog, Zeus. He had suffered from epileptic seizures for the past year. Initially he had only one seizure every other month or so, but recently they came as close as a week apart, and in clusters of 4-6 seizures in 24 hours.
The vet had prescribed him phenobarbitol, and that seemed to extend the periods between seizures for a while.
Lately he had started to lose control of his bodily functions during the attacks, and afterwards got more and more confused and disoriented. The past couple of days, he had started to "mark" our two little live Christmas trees, and anything else wooden in the house.
This morning he had a seizure at the top of the steps and lost control. He came tumbling down the steps, almost crashing through the railing at 1/2 landing. After this seizure, he was blind for so long, that we knew, if we let it go, he'd hurt himself one day, while we weren't at home. The house had already been arranged to a point, where there were wide open spaces with nothing in the way wherever possible. We had removed the coffee table in the living room, the little statues from in front of the fireplace, and placed large pillows in areas where there were sharp corners. Of course, this was not a designers dream come true, but it was for Zeus. He was worth the extra precautions.
After having contemplated the necessity of euthanasia for a couple of months, this morning I knew it was time before something drastic happened to him.
I stayed with him, while he passed on to the other side. It isn't easy, you know!? But he is better off where he is at now.
And by the way... dogs *DO* have souls. His left his body about 30 seconds after the doctor declared him dead. I was petting him still, and I felt a change, a sudden emptiness, in the room and within me.
"I wish you all the rabbits you never got to catch, and all the trees in the world to mark, my Big Boy. Rest in peace, my Buddy."
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