Priced to Live (continued)
by Karl Rothrock
They rode out to the woods on the four-wheeler. Maybe he spoke gently to the beagle in the last moments, remembering when the dog dashed around the trees, sniffing and baying.
That’s all there is … “It’s a simple procedure,” the vet said. They would admit Tipper, insert an I.V. It would save his life for now, all for the ballpark price of $500. After that, it’s all about the beagle’s lifetime supply of medication. The Humane Society’s “Guide” states the simplicity of delivering this medicine, but it fails to mention the perpetual effect on the wallet to support the animal.
The nurses supplied the bill; Mom lamely announced her inability to pay for Tipper’s procedure.
“How much to put him to sleep so he doesn’t suffer?” she asked.
“It is $139 for us to put him down and bury him in a nice pet cemetery,” the vet said. “It’s $82 for us to put him down and you take the body home with you.”
“I don’t want to take the body,” Mom said.
The vet shrugged.
“My husband, the dog’s owner, will do it,” she said.
“He’s going to shoot him,” I said, feeling aggrieved.
Another shrug. The doctor cocked his pointer finger and thumb. “Well, make sure he does it right.” He poked his index finger behind the flap of Tipper’s ear. “In behind the left ear,” he said. “Tell him to aim for the right eye.”
The beagle looked at us, eyes watering, and his tail jerked suddenly, feigning a joyous wag. When it was over, reality quickly flooded the world again. “You keep expecting to come home and there that little beagle will be,” Dad said the other day. “Them other dogs miss him. They look for him but he’s not there.”
In February 2009, Dad’s union voted against adopting a new life insurance plan. An additional $400 dollars went for the cost of life insurance.
Things could be worse, he always said. Into the woods behind our house, up the hill, following tractor ruts in the earth, gouged under bows of oak and maple trees, leaves blanket a makeshift graveyard — a muddy track beside the path. Beside the way sits a small mound of earth covered by an overturned plastic dish and a meager stick planted upright—a glib stand-in for a cross. “He’ll do what he has to do,” Mom said, looking out the window as the road to the vet’s rewound underneath. “The important thing is that the poor thing doesn’t suffer. It’s our responsibility to help our pets, but if it comes down to them or you kids, they go first.”
“It’s just a shame that’s the way it has to be,” I said.
She didn’t answer but coddled the frail being convulsing against her chest.
Pages 1 • 2 |
Titles
|