It's All So Funny

Do you know what’s weird? When you are driving to a sportastic game that one of your step kids is playing the sports in, and you are with your whole family, and everything is all normal, and then one of you spies a sign for a pet cemetery.

You don’t even need to exchange words with your husband, because it’s a given that you will be visiting that place after the sporting event has ceased.

All through sports-playing, you sit and dream about Stephen King, haunted, mangled cats, dogs with halos and such, and you can hardly stand the anticipation.

You are rewarded mightily, for when you arrive at your destination, you are met with trillions upon ass-loads of gravestones, the likes of which you could never have imagined in your wildest fever dreams.

We jumped out and walked out for a short time, sort of giggling at the incongruity of somber gravestones with cutesy pet names engraved on them.

I’ve always been a pet-lover, but not to this extent. Our dogs have been put down at vet offices and left to be disposed of tidily, fish and hamsters have been tucked into the garbage waiting to be whisked away. I have never felt this to be cold or callous, but as I feasted my eyes on stone after stone, I wondered about the people who spend lots of money on burials and gravestones for their pets, and I wondered if I loved my dogs less than I was supposed to.

I tend to sit somewhere in between people who dress their pets up for Halloween and people who leave their dogs outside all day. I would never, ever strike my dog, but I don’t coddle her. Okay, she sleeps on our bed. But she doesn’t get organic, grass-fed homemade food niblets.

I posted recently on my Facebook fan page that I thought the time was nigh for us to put down Farmer. I was met with lots of support and kind words, and it was so sweet.

In reality, I know that Farmer will NEVER die. From her mysterious beginnings to her days living on the streets on the south side of Chicago to her dozens of escapes from our house she has survived against all odds. She’s bounced back from what one vet thought was kidney failure, dodged cars, done battle with opossums, eaten more chocolate than most people could even handle, and currently has a tumor the size of a baby chick on her leg. We were told it was a form of cancer that claimed dogs within 6-8 weeks, but that was 2 years ago.

We watch it grow and joke about it. Farmer barely registers it, but the skin on it has stretched an alarming amount, so we all gasp when she notices it and gives it a little nibble with her front teeth.

Sometimes lately she goes through mysterious shaking spells- for hours- that lead us to the conclusion it is time to take her in to the vet one final time, but by the next morning she is rested and wants to play ball. We’ll watch her curiously for a few days and then feel relief we haven’t had to help the kids work through mourning yet.

We love her, but there will be no funeral for her. She’ll go the way of our other pets, dealt with by the vet. Partially because of the expense, but mostly because it’s hard to deal with death. We want to remember her- and let the kids remember her- as she is now; sleeping, farting, stealing our food, and trying to kill us by standing directly under foot.

We’ll talk about her fondly, remember her forever, and then, when it’s time, we’ll compare the new puppy’s antics to Farmer’s, and the whole family pet cycle will begin again.