When Wes decided we were ready to give Doc up, he investigated a whole herd of dog rescue groups in the area, leaving messages and hoping someone would call him back and offer to fix Doc up and find him a new home.  No one did.

Doc continued to deteriorate, and we made the grim decision to take him to the Humane Society to be euthanized.  Just as a precaution, I called them first to make sure they would actually assist us with this as he was neither extremely old nor extremely ill.

They surprised the pants off me by saying they were willing to take responsibility for Doc, get him the surgeries he needs, and then find him a new home.  When I told this news to Wes, I could visibly see a weight taken off his shoulders.  This was the best possible scenario, and it was staring us in the face.

We made an appointment, and we’ll be dropping him off this afternoon to start his road to recovery.  The conditions of the Humane Society taking him stipulate that he goes to a different home after the surgery, but we’re honestly fine with that.  He’ll likely need more vet care in the future and we’re not in a position to pay for that for him.

So that’s where we’re at.  I’m standing at the precipice of my second big goodbye of the year, but this one is entirely different.  It’ll definitely be strange coming home to a dog-less house, but this is the end of our journey with Doc.

We watched him run…

We watched him grow…

And now it’s time to watch him go…

We’ll miss him a lot.

• Our 4th wedding anniversary is this Thursday!  We’re celebrating by going to a Seahawks game on Sunday and then going to see Avatar later in the week.
• Christmas break!  My job gives us two weeks off for Christmas!  Do you have ANY idea how many naps I can take in a two week period?  Glorious.
• Christmas!  We LOVE Christmas.  We love singing the songs, we love the decorations, we love hanging out with family, and for the first time in two years we can actually afford to give gifts to each other.  Yay Christmas!
• Ultrasound!  We have our final ultrasound the Monday after Christmas.  The last time we saw Squishy, I was 20 weeks along and by the time we see him next I’ll be 32 weeks along.  We’re SO excited to take a peek at our vibrant little boy.
• Baby shower!  My very pretty and talented friend is throwing me a baby shower in early January.  We’ve invited a whole bunch of really neat people and I can’t wait to see every single one of them.
• Baby!  We’re getting close now.  Very close.

As you can see, Wes and I extremely blessed.  Our life is full, rich, and exciting.  That’s not to say, however, that it’s without difficulty.  We have some challenges coming up.

Wes will be starting his job search in January.  He finished school and has been studying like a mad man to get his certifications so that he’ll be more hireable.  He’s got a huge test coming up next week and it’s the biggest hurdle he’s had to jump over so far.

His friend from school has taken it twice already and still has yet to pass it.  To say Wes is taking this test seriously is an understatement.  When he passes it, we’ll be celebrating with dinner and a movie.

With this certification on his resume, he’ll be able to start searching for a job as a software developer.  Not that there’s any pressure for him to find a job, what with our baby being due in ten weeks.

Can we all take a minute to cheer for Wes from the sidelines as he toils in studying, attempting the impossible by finding a good job in a recession?

We have also made the difficult decision to put down our beloved puppy extraordinaire, Doc Holliday.  His appointment is this Saturday.

Fret not, Wes made this decision, not me.  Doc is just ready.  He’s given us the signs we need to feel comfortable that he’s ready to go and so we’ll shower him with love, attention, and treats this last week and then we’ll load him up in the car and take him to his last appointment.

It sucks.  It’s something difficult that’s looming over our heads.  We know he’s ready and that it’s time, but that knowledge doesn’t make it any easier.

That’s all for now from Casa de Mitchell.  We have so much to look forward to, but to get to some of those things we just need to keep pushing forward even when it’s difficult.  But that’s life, isn’t it?  We’ll take the good things, do our best with the difficult, and in the end as long as we end up with our little baby and maybe some eggnog I reckon we’ll be just fine.

You all wrote in with some lovely comments about how he’ll let us know when he’s ready to go, and how I shouldn’t make any big decisions while insane pregnant.  All valid points, but that doesn’t make the situation any more bearable.

He’s still the same old Doc, but he’s shown us twice in the last two weeks how this injury is different.  He’s re-injured his leg twice and each time sets him right back to where he started, obliterating any and all progress he may have made toward healing.

Wes and I are handling the situation as best we can, though in diametrically opposite ways.  Doc’s injuries seem to draw Wes closer to the dog, giving him a desire to spend time with Doc.  My heart, however, bruised and battered as it is, seems to have shut itself off from the dog.  Kind of like an emotional circuit breaker has been thrown and my brain has taken my mind out of the running.

It’s un-nerving.  I feel a vague numbness toward the dog now.  When he falls, where my heart used to wrench painfully I can no longer feel anything.  I still feed him, and I’ll pet him if he asks me to, and continue to fulfill all my pet owner responsibilities, but my heart has decided it’s had enough.

It leaves Wes and I in a curious place.  He knows all about this of course, and while he doesn’t understand it he doesn’t think I’m a horrible person because of it.  We all have our breaking points, and I suppose losing my Dad while pregnant and then watching my dog slowly fall to pieces is mine.

Everyone handles the breaking point differently.  When I used to feel the numbness as a teenager, my reaction was often to cut myself or partake in something similarly self-destructive (I had a particular affinity for cigarettes).  Now, I see it for what it is and I know it won’t last (meaning no cutting or cigarettes or anything self-destructive).

It’s a focalized numbness.  I grow more in love with my son every day, and my love for Wes continues to burn bright and steady like a lighthouse.  It’s just my feelings toward the dog, this dog who has brought us laughter and light and heartbreak and gigantic vet bills, those have changed.

We still don’t know what we’re going to do about him.  Wes has given himself a self-imposed deadline of one week to make a decision.  In all likelihood we’ll wind up keeping him around until he outlives us all, and I’ll just have to break out all the nifty tools I picked up in therapy to cope with my emotions.

I’m just tired.  Very, very tired.  Tired, and heart-sore, and weary of crying about my dog.

Doc hurt his leg (y’know, the bad one) getting into the bathtub for bath time on Sunday.  This is not atypical, jumping into the tub has always been a strain on his legs and hips.

He followed up the mild injury by taking a bad fall while trying to make it up the stairs.  This compounded the problem, changed it from a limp to a disability.

We kept him in his crate all day Monday and yesterday, letting him out for stretches, water, and bathroom breaks, but he struggles.  A lot.  The wood floors are challenging for him, and he’s so scared of slipping on them that he just stands in fear and refuses to walk on them.

His other back leg is in no great shape either, and the strain of supporting the weight of his back end on its own leads it to shake and tremble before betraying him and making him fall.

Wes and I spent half an hour trying to coax Doc out of his crate last night.  We wanted to take him out to the bathroom one more time before bed, but he wouldn’t stand up for us.  We tried enticing him out of his crate with treats and peanut butter but he wouldn’t.  He was more scared of falling than he was desirous of peanut butter.

We finally had to dismantle his crate around him so that Wes could lift him out from above and help him make it outside.  We’re keeping him out in his kennel now because the floor there is concrete and not slippery at all.

This whole episode has really thrown me off my game.  It tears me to pieces to see him struggling like this.  It’s not like this all the time, which is why we haven’t put him down yet, but knowing that this kind of injury is always just a bad run up the stairs away, well, quite honestly it makes me not want to do this anymore.

I’m not sure whether this makes me a bad person, or a bad pet owner.  Is it wrong to say I’m tired of watching my dog struggle?

Wes says Doc’s quality of life is normally very good, that he still plays with his toys and eats and gets affection.  I can’t quite see it that way.  When I look at Doc, I see a dog who loves being with his people but who otherwise has nothing else to look forward to in life.

I see a dog whose opportunities to run, play with other dogs, fetch, and swim were taken away by a freak leg injury that happened when he was less than a year old.  Yeah, he’s still happy to be around us but that’s the only thing in life he’s able to enjoy anymore.  The best it gets for him would barely even register for other dogs.

Especially coming off watching my Dad’s health decline, hating the cancer for every pleasure it took away from him until the only thing he could do that brought him enjoyment was use the computer and watch TV, I just feel spent.  Doc got injured right around when my Dad was diagnosed with cancer, so their health declines have thus far been eerily matched.

I really do wonder if it makes me a bad person for not wanting to do this anymore with my dog.  My heart, still so tender and raw and pained, rebels at the prospect of watching Doc get marginally better again, better enough to hobble around anyway, only to know with sick certainty that his next injury is simply a matter of time.

Wes argues that until Doc doesn’t want to live anymore we should continue to keep him as safe as possible, and that we’ll know he no longer wants to live because he’ll grow lethargic, unwilling to play, and unwilling to eat.

I argue that there’s only so much I can take, and there’s only so long I can keep watching my dog struggle to do normal things.  Like stand up.

Does this make me a bad person?

It’s really cool to see something you’ve worked on come to fruition.  Like, back in July it was just an idea, and now it’s a verifiable entity.  With posts.  And comments.  I think that’s the one-of-a-kind rush you get from launching a new website: You send it out into the world, and when you started getting responses it’s a very heady feeling.

That’s not to say I was feeling 100% awesome last night.  No no.  I had a headache that could have crushed a donkey and it stuck around all freaking day.  I tried eating some M&M’s for the caffeine factor (and because they’re yummy) but to no avail.  I’m avoiding drugs during pregnancy just because I enjoy playing it safe when it comes to my fetus, but even the self-gratifying rush that comes from doing the best I can to be an awesome pregnant chick did nothing to help me feel better last night.

What did make me feel better was watching Doc act like a complete goof.  The first thing he did was fart, loudly.  Then, because he always surprises himself when that happens, he craned his neck around so that he could smell his own butt.  When I asked him what in the blue heck he was doing, he smiled at me and wagged his tail.  Whatever makes him happy, I guess.

The second thing he did was whine and pace in front of the sliding glass door because, wait for it, there were leaves blowing by.  Menacing leaves, that obviously meant the two of us no good at all, and the only thing for it was to stand guard at the door to ensure those suckers didn’t come charging in, crumbling all over the place.  It’s a good thing he was there.

Truthfully, I’m finding myself in the very familiar situation of not knowing where to set boundaries for myself with work.  There’s always something I could be doing, but doesn’t mean it’s healthy for me, or for Squishy, to work constantly.  Sure, my kitchen is immaculate, the laundry is folded, dinner is set for tomorrow, and I’ve written five posts, but I’m also exhausted and can barely muster up the energy to shower and then succumb to the luscious pillows on my bed.

I determined last night that I had better get my act together and start parceling out time to relax, or I’ll be in very sorry shape once this baby’s done cooking.  If I refuse to give myself time and space to do something relaxing now, what will become of me when I have four times as much laundry to do and a child I have to feed with my boobs?

A big soggy mess, that’s what will become of me.  A big, soggy, miserable mess who will find it very hard to distill pleasure and enjoyment from my new little family, and will instead just be resentful and bitter.

That being said…Does anyone know of a way to get chores to do themselves?

I wondered how he was hoping I’d respond to his recrimination.  That maybe I’d dive under the nearest tree and fan myself while shouting my agreement across the street?  That I’d crumple to the ground and clutch my heart when I realized that yes, it truly was too hot to walk?  Apparently, I live on the surface of the sun.

I really miss Doc on these walks.  Whenever Wes and I pass someone walking a dog down the street we always get quiet for a moment.  I miss nagging him to heel, I miss watching him struggle not to chase the leaves down the street, I would be overjoyed to hear the clicking of his giant dog claws next to me against the pavement.  There are sweet summer days that just seem created for a good game of fetch, but I can’t bring myself to play it with him because he’ll gladly injure himself just for the thrill of chasing down a ball.

We still have our laughs, though.  I was reclining on the couch with my arms above my head last night and Doc, not looking first, decided to ram himself against my shoulder.  Except my shoulder wasn’t there, it was my armpit.  So there went Doc’s whole face, nose first, right into my armpit.  He was shaking deodorant out of his nostrils for a good minute or so.

Or Buns.  Oh my gosh, he loves Buns (the bunny).  He’s haunted by Buns, truly.  He saw Buns in our yard once, many months ago.  Away he went, tearing across the yard like his tail was on fire.  He didn’t catch Buns, of course, because Buns is very hoppity, but now he’s obsessed with chasing this bunny he saw many months ago.  Every time he goes outside he rushes out, chest out and tail wagging, scanning the yard for just a glimpse of a furry little bunny butt.

He never sees it, but that doesn’t stop him from trying.  Kind of like with us and our quest to be financially secure.  We have yet to actually see what that looks like, but we keep trying, tail wagging all the while.

In other canine-related news, we have a neighborhood pest.  Not the bedraggled, scrappy little pup who wanders the ‘hood in search of children in trouble and vulnerable desserts just waiting to be knocked from window ledges.  This pest is confined to his yard.  Where he barks.  All day and all night.

Since when is it ok to just let your dog bark all the time?  Outdoors?  When you live in the ‘burbs and your neighbors are all working very hard at the jobs they need to excel at so they don’t lose their 1,000 square feet of dream lifestyle?

This dog sounds like it weighs about ten pounds but has the vocal chord strength of  a gaggle of angry chimps.  It barks all night and during sporadic times in the day, which leads me to believe the owner brings it inside sometimes.  Which then leads me to assume said owner kicks the stupid dog out at night.  Which I assume is because it’s a yappy mess of a creature.

Listen, I get that barking dogs are unpleasant.  They’re loud, they do it for any and all reasons, and they get all riled up about it.  However, I’ve heard there are these amazing breakthroughs in behavioral manipulation (called “basic training” to responsible pet owners) that can prevent this kind of thing from becoming a problem.

Now, I’m not saying we’re perfect.  Doc barked his little head off for the first month we left him outside in his kennel during the day.  He wasn’t happy and he wanted us back and it was all too tragic.  We let him know we didn’t appreciate his noise by setting a reliable routine and chucking tennis balls at his cage (thereby making a scary rattling noise) every time he barked.  Now, he goes outside and stays there with nary a peep.

We’ve taken a lot of pains to ensure our puppy is not a menace or a pain to anyone but us.  He doesn’t pee or poop in anyone’s yard but ours.  He doesn’t bark.  He’s never off leash.  He only kisses and plays with people who tell us they want his affection.  He’s a model dog, and we love him to pieces.

But, we had to work all three of us to the ground to get there.  It just really makes me mad that this person couldn’t be bothered to do the work he/she should have done to be a good neighbor-who-is-also-a-dog-owner and now we all have to suffer for it.  Our backyard abuts about five other yards, so it’s kind of impossible to ascertain the menace.  It could be the cocker spaniel who lives in what Wes and I suspect is perhaps a meth lab (or forgotten portal to Narnia).  Or it could be the papillon who lives with the neighbor whose tree fell in our yard and nearly smushed our kennel.

Rest assured, however, that if I ever figure out whose dog it is, I will be sorely tempted to invest in some pooch-safe narcoleptics that will be swiftly tucked inside treats and hurled over the fence.  I am sorry.  I work a ton.  I need rest, and for me the sound of a yipping dog is just about as far away from restful as it gets.  If that means drugging someone’s dog with Puppy Ambien for a night?  I’m all for it.

Answer me this, though: Why is it that you can spend ten minutes trying to get a Labrador’s coat wet and still have great gaping dry patches all over?  I know Labs have a special double-coat and oil that makes them such good swimmers and whatnot but it also makes them nigh impossible to get really and truly soaking wet.  It blows my mind every time.

Also?  Doc licking the water drops that fall off the edge of his nose makes me melt from the cuteness.

I hope you all had a great Mother’s Day.  Mine was lovely, I had a nice chat with my mother and spent the afternoon eating yummy food with Wes’ family.  It was a strange day for me, though.  Even though I took a (negative) pregnancy test last Wednesday there’s still been no conclusive proof that I’m not pregnant.

And I’m late.  Like, pretty freaking late.  As in festivities were supposed to start last Tuesday and as of right now I’m later than I’ve ever been, wonky cycle lengths all accounted for and everything.

This made Mother’s Day a bit interesting for me.  I was determined not to test on Sunday because, in case you haven’t heard, I don’t do so well with dashed expectations and I didn’t feel like having an emotional breakdown on what is supposed to be a lovely celebration.  But I’m still wondering.  Fixating a little, but mostly curious.  Having never gotten a positive pregnancy test result, I have no idea what it will feel like.  It’s much easier for me to imagine not being pregnant, so that’s where my mind keeps going.

Regardless, Wes and I have decided that I will take another test on Saturday if things haven’t started by then.  That will put me at six days later than my latest-ever date, so I should have a reliably positive or negative result then.  So fingers crossed, ok?

For now, here are the things we know:

1. Our wallets love Pedigree dog food (for the delightful cheapness) but Doc’s stomach certainly does not.  Our downstairs family room has become a bit of a biohazard zone as of late.  We’re considering making Doc’s colon an outdoor colon.
2. Barring a global disaster of some kind, Wes will be going back to school on Monday.  I’ll get into the details of that decision later.
3. Our home loan modification is almost done.  THANK GOODNESS.
4. Eating two brownies in one evening always seems like a terrific idea until afterward when your stomach is indignant and you can’t move for fear of losing dessert and dinner.
5. Seriously.  The dog.  Oh my goodness.

I hope you’re all having a lovely evening/morning/afternoon/day and I look forward to dishing the details on most of that stuff tomorrow.

We'll travel around the world, just you and me Punk Rock Squirrel...

Aren’t they just the dandiest?  They’re so tall and proud, so bright and defiantly cheerful.  You can see they opted against piercings and tattoos because, as any real punk knows, punk is all about what’s inside, friends.

I tried to get Doc interested in the daffodils, but he couldn’t have cared less…

You see, before his recent bone devouring incident, he grew rather enraptured of Voltaire.  That didn’t last long, and now after his near-death experience he’s on a rather pious kick.  He, quite frankly, doesn’t understand why anyone would want to live a life of rebellion and has resorted to calling his body a temple and requesting tofu.

We do not do tofu in this household, and refuse to feed the dog food that costs more than the food we eat, so we’ve politely declined his requests.  He’s sulking but I think he’ll make it.

Be careful or your face will get stuck that way, buddy.

In other news, Wes is thinking about going back to school, our accountant is asking for our firstborn child as payment for filing our taxes, our home loan is still not modified, we’re trying to figure out how a baby fits into this mess, and my car needs an oil change.

So, you know, not much going on that’s worth talking about really…