The house feels really empty tonight. Earlier today we had to take our oldest furbaby, Chancey-bear, to the vet. We noticed on Friday he didn't seem to be feeling too well. He wasn't going to his water/food dishes, and he didn't scratch to go out. He found a cozy spot next to my computer and stayed there last night. And when it came bedtime, hubby and I realized he couldn't seem to pick himself up off the floor.
I'd been bringing him food and water to where he was laying, but he had very little interest in it. So this morning, hubby called my dad and with Oldest's help, they all loaded him into my dad's truck and took Chancey to the vet.
I had a bad feeling then, I mean, Chancey's no spring chicken and he's had a few strokes this year. It didn't really surprise me when they said he needed to be put to sleep, but good grief there is no way to prepare yourself for it.
The vet said that his back legs had just given out due to his age. Nerve and muscular deterioration. I thought maybe arthritis, so this was a heavy blow for me. It just came on so quickly, I just figured what else could it be?
So there was my shocker for the day. When I woke up this morning I had no idea I would have to have my oldest furbaby put to sleep.
The hubster brought Chancey home when he was about 8 weeks old. He'd found him wandering along the side of the road not far from the garbage bins where we're pretty sure someone dumped him off. He was a fat little ball of fur - with the mange, of all things. He had a huge, raw scar across his belly where it looked like he'd been bumped by a car.
Hubby brought him in and said, "Hon, can we keep him?" I wasn't too thrilled with the idea. We'd just moved into a tiny little two bedroom place, and I didn't think it was really a good idea to have a pet at that point. Of course, he took his case to Oldest, who at the time was 3 years old. Of course Oldest immediately got attached to Chancey, and well...darn it, but I'm a sucker for cute. I told hubby, "Ok. He can stay. But you guys have to promise to take care of him." They gave me the scout's honor - they'll feed, bathe, brush, de-flea him, etc. After all that, hubby corrals our new puppy in the kitchen and starts dishing out kibble from a bag of dog food I had no idea we had. "Whew! I'm so glad you said, yes," Hubby tells me, "because I've already taken him to the vet for a dip, worming, and shots."
It wasn't easy coming up with a name for the little guy. He went without an official name for about a week and a half, until Hubby sat down to watch a few rented movies - one being Hard Target, one of the movies with Jean-Claude Van Damme. Anyway, Chance Boudreux = the character name for Jean-Claude. No kidding. Some how or another I allowed him to pin that name on a soft, highly intelligent little ball of fur, and it stuck.
Of course, over time, like any other mommy duty, I ended up the one feeding, bathing, brushing, de-fleaing Chancey. But I didn't mind it. He was part of the family, after all. Truthfully, like one of my kids. While Hubby worked and Oldest was at school, I'm home working and the dogs are with me. They're my company while I'm washing dishes, or folding clothes.
Needless to say, it's been a devastating, emotionally draining day. Out of our four family pets that transferred with us from that little two bedroom place to the house we live in now, there is only one furbaby left, and he's a senior doggy as well.
Hubby, Oldest, and Dad brought him home wrapped in a comforter, and buried him in the side-yard next to our two little old lady dogs. I haven't been out there to see the spot yet. I can't bear it at this point.
Chancey has been with us for 14 years. He's lived from one 3 year old (Oldest) to another (Mini), and it feels odd not to have him here now. Rest in peace, my sweetiepup.