Never say Never

We have a dog at our house, named Molly, who has been with us for 11 years. She was at least a year or so old when we got her from the shelter, so we're guessing that she is closing in on teenager-hood.

Molly has always been a very healthy dog, and as a person on a tight budget, I am grateful for that. I have had friends and family members (some who read this blog), whose pets have had diabetes or liver failure or cancer, and many of them have gone to extraordinary measures and astronomical expense to keep them alive. We have known people who have gone into debt to pay for expensive surgeries, checked their cat's blood sugar several times a day, taken their dog for colonoscopies (you know who you are), and the like. Greg and I have always acted indignant about this, proclaiming that we would never do such a thing to our Molly, and that when her time comes, we will be grateful for all of the good years she has had, and bid her farewell.

When will I finally learn not to use the phrase, "I would never"?

It comes back to bite me every time.

Friday night, I noticed Molly was looking sullen and her entire body was trembling. She was clearly in pain, but with no obvious injury.

So Saturday morning, as I drove her gingerly to the vet, the thought of losing Molly was prominent in my mind. I tried to prepare myself for the Worst Possible Scenario, and I pictured myself standing in the vet's office having to make The Decision. The Decision Greg and I had already talked about, the one we swore we would make before we let Molly suffer unnecessarily.

Standing by the exam table, with Molly's pleading eyes upon me as the veterinarian probed and prodded her trembling body, my tears were fighting to come to the surface. I steeled myself for the diagnosis.

"Well, I think Molly has fractured one of her vertebrae," the doctor explained. He went on to talk about possible treatments for the injury, which all seemed agreeable until he mentioned the word "Surgery".

"Oh, nononono," I exclaimed. "We can't possibly afford for her to have surgery." I continued babbling incoherently about how many kids I have and how many bills, and then I launched into my spiel about not prolonging her life at the expense of her quality of life, and how I loveherbutI'mokaywithlettinghergo (SOB).

Calmly, the doctor handed me a box of Kleenexes, and I tried to stem the flow of tears running down my face.

"You know, this injury isn't life threatening."

Oh.

Well.

Never mind then.

So I walked out of there with a prescription and treatments for my dog, and no dignity whatsoever.