Ming the Merciless has lost the use of her back legs completely. The poor little girl is well over twelve years old and it's getting to be time to take her into the yard with a paper plate full of liverwurst (her fave) and give her the shot.
Rudyard Kipling said it as well as anyone in The Power Of The Dog, the last stanzas go like:
When the body that lived at your single will,
With it's whimper of welcome is stilled (how still!)
When the spirit that answered your every mood
Is gone--wherever it goes--for good,
You will discover how much you care,
And will give your heart for a dog to tear.
We've sorrow enough in the natural way. When it comes to burying Christian clay.
Our loves are not given but only lent, at compound interest of cent per cent.
Though it is not always the case, I believe,
That the longer we've kept 'em the more we grieve;
For, when debts are payable, right or wrong, A short-time loan is as bad as a long--
So why in -- Heaven (before we are there)
Should we give our heart for a dog to tear?
Why indeed? Yet we do it anyway. Well, it's time to dig another hole in the yard. Damn. Just damn.
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