Decay, Rocks, and a Dog Named Ballou

The Decay of the Day and ROCKS! 

Went for a walk with the dog early this afternoon, vaguely following some old tracks from coyotes.  I found a wash coming down the hillside and it was just filled with interesting rocks.  I gathered as many as I could carry and then hauled them all home.  My mom, sitting on the upstairs porch, saw me struggling up the driveway with my arms full.  "What do you have?"  she asked. "Rocks!" "What?"  "Rocks!!"  "Oh, alright!" she responded.  She was excited.

I was barely able to open the front door.  In response to my, "Honey, I'm home and look what I've got, rocks!"  M. said, "Well, that's just what we needed, more rocks!  I'd been thinking that I ought to put them on the list of things to get more of next time we go out, but just hadn't gotten to it yet."  So, yeah, more rocks.

Here are a few photos of what I saw on my walk.

And a few things I made, yesterday and today: 

Made with repurposed nuts

Made with repurposed nuts and recycled glass

Made with repurposed nuts and recycled glass

Putting the Dog Down

Today's the day.  I called the vet this morning to make an appointment to put our old dog to sleep.  How strange, I thought to myself, I'm making an appointment to have my dog killed.  Over the weekend, I'd thought of googling, "How to kill your dog,"  but didn't have the gumption.  I told M. and he promptly googled it for me.  There's quite some discussion about this on the internet.  People are torn, it seems.  Some think it's horrifying to even consider killing your pet, that it must be a vet who, as they say, puts it to sleep.  Others see it as a matter of personal responsibility and avoiding anxiety for the dog's last moments.  I can see both perspectives.  I can see that a vet provides an almost sure thing of a painless death, but I know that my dog will be anxious going for a car trip and seeing the vet.  I'd rather have her die in a relaxed psychological state, at home.  But killing her at home (excuse me, putting her to sleep) means most likely having to shoot her in the head.  That pretty much guarantees an instant and painless death without much prior anxiety, but then I would forever have the image stuck in my head of my dog with a bloody head wound.   Choosing the vet, then, seems more about my own comfort than hers.

Regardless, today is the day.  I have mixed feelings about it.  She is definitely in bad shape, she can barely stand up, she can't turn around without falling down, she has no muscle in her back legs, she can't see, can't hear, has no bladder or bowel control, and seems pretty demented.  Still, each day she does seem to have moments of pleasure. I see her sleeping outside the house in the sun and she looks peaceful and contented.  But too often now she seems miserable and confused, almost afraid.  While I was never particularly close to her and didn't have a tight bond with her as I do with my other dog, I will miss her and I'm sad that her days are over.  

Her name is Ballou.  She's named after two things: one, the bear in the Jungle Book, and two, my mis-hearing of the name of the dog in the 1970s song, "Me and You and a Dog Named Boo," by Lobo.