I was joking about it yesterday.
It's how I deal.
That we would sign a do not rescuscitate order on my 12-year-old pug, Ming, when she went in for dental surgery today.
I did not expect the phone call an hour in.
It was Doctor Morgan.
Doctor Death, as she is known affectionately in this household.
Dr. Morgan said that Ming probably wouldn't survive the surgery. She had a compromised airway, made worse by a wheezing fit she had last night, the result of allergies.
And so I gave the order.
And now there is only Gordie, the one we thought would go first. Gordie who had already had two operations for stones in his bladder, Gordie who had to be treated for pancreatitis.
But he's now the last pug standing.
It's pretty hard considering we lost Hannah only two months ago.
But this is what it is with dogs. You get to have them, to love them, and then they're gone.
They aren't meant to outwit, outlast or outplay us.
They're like beer; you only rent them.
There I am with the humor again.
It's what keeps me going I guess.
So a few hours from now, we will be bringing Gordie, toothless, home to terrorize the baby once again.
One dog left to love.
Until we can't anymore.