Wildee
On the second day that my dog was flopping over due to her new hip dysplasia, my mom and I had an almost accidental conversation about when it’d be appropriate to put her down, and how she had done it once before. When my mom was about my age, she found a german shepherd mix (possibly) puppy on the side of a highway as she was driving home from college for Thanksgiving break. She took that puppy home with her, and named her Wildee, or Wildebeest. Wildee lived to be eighteen.Â
When she was eighteen, Wildee was so weak she had almost no control of her body, could barely stand, and was urinating and defecating on herself very often. My mother claims she just lay her head down and seemed to sleep, but didn't wake up. She claims that both she and my dad cried like babies in the car afterward.
My father claims that a few days before Wildee was put down, she bit him, and she showed me a thin, white scar on his hand to "prove it". I did not believe him. Even if Wildee had bitten him, it seems dubious that an eighteen-year-old, nearly dead dog could bite so fiercely, so deep, that the scar would show on his skin for another eighteen years. And despite all his good intentions for me and my future, he is known to lie at the drop of a hat.Â
My brother was about eight years old when Wildee was put down. He claimed he always remembered her as an "old, lazy dog". I would have been one or two, then. I don't remember her at all.Â
