Dreams

I've been having a lot of dreams involving my old dog, Shmeg. They are so realistic that I don't want to wake up, but when I do I get depressed because I remember.


Just a note, that this blog post is probably going to get fairly emotional fairly quickly.


Shmeg was a dog we got when I was about 7. At the time we already had a cat, that was brought into the house when I was about 1. 

She was not happy with us and showed us by peeing on my moms down duvet.

Shmeg quickly became my best friend. When my parents marriage started to fall apart, he would come find me as soon as the yelling started. He would snuggle with me until it ended, and sometimes even a little after. Our house was a strict "no dogs on the furniture" house, but when my parents weren't around I would bring Shmeg up on the couch, or on my bed, with me to cuddle. 

We spent a lot of time snuggled up on my bed, especially when I was sick.

Anyone who hasn't ever had a close relationship with an animal can't understand how much I miss him. There will never be a dog to replace Shmeg, and I don't ever want there to be. He had this look to him where it made him look like he was smiling all the time. It made me happy.

And even when he wasn't "smiling", he was looking deep and contemplative. Like there was some deep meaningful thoughts on his mind. I try to focus more on the time we spent cuddled up on my bed, or the couch, usually watching t.v or movies when I wasn't feeling well. He went for runs with me and was the first animal to ever respond so obediently to me. Later we would get another dog, and you would really have to be forceful with your voice to get his attention, but Shmeg listened. Shmeg always listened to me. The way Shmeg died seemed fitting, what with all the time we spent curled up together when I wasn't feeling well. But I'm getting ahead of myself.


Our cat started to go crazy, literally developing dementia. She stopped cleaning herself, wouldn't let us near her to brush her, and was literally the kind of cat that would rather rip open your throat than let you bath her, or shave her. When she was at the tipe old age of about 15 we had to put her down. She had finally hit the point where she didn't know what anything was, not even her food. This was the first time we'd ever raised two animals together and were very unaware that when you put one down, you need to bring the other along. So that it can sniff the body and know that it's dead. Otherwise you end up with an animal with abandonment issues. 


Until we put P.C (our cat) down, Shmeg had loved other cat's. He always wanted to play with them, like he'd play with P.C. After we put P.C down is when we discovered that the animal left alive will develop emotional issues. For months it was a fight to get Shmeg to eat, or do anything. He would lay about lazily, depressed. He also started snapping at other cats. He would see one and go absolutely ape-shit. He wanted nothing more than to rip them apart, luckily we were the type of pet owners that only let the dog's off leash in safe area's, like off leash parks. 


My mom bought Shmeg a puppy, thinking it would help him with his depression. Well, that was her excuse. The truth is, since I was born she's wanted another Wolf-dog. She finally had a reason to buy one. 


Shmeg was about 9 years old when he started to develop health issues. The vet we were at at the time told us it was typical hip dysplasia that almost all German Shepards develop with old age. They were not the best vet office, and after other issues with them we sought out a new vet. The new vet informed us that we had been treating the wrong issue. He could tell just by watching Shmeg walk that he didn't have hip dysplasia, his spine was fusing together. I still cannot explain the anger and rage I feel towards our old vet. They wasted time we could have been spending treating the real problem. Instead, by the time we got him to the new vet and were told the real problem, it was too late. He had already lost a lot of muscle mass in his hind legs, and there was no fixing him.


He lived a couple months longer on pain killers, until he literally couldn't get up anymore. Once he started soiling his bed, we knew it was time. He was no longer living a good or happy life, he was suffering. My mother had taken P.C to be put down and was more than adamant that she couldn't do it again. Choking back tears, I told her I wanted to be the one with Shmeg anyways. He was my best friend. Like I said, at this point he couldn't stand up by himself. I had to pick him up and carry him to the car, then from the car to the vet's office. He was about 90 lbs and the heaviest thing I'd ever carried that long, but I didn't want to ever put him down, literally.


I will always remember sitting on the cold floor of the vet's office as they tried to sedate him 3 times before it took. Once it took, he laid there lazily, his head on my lap, looking up at me with that smile of his. He finally let the sedative take him, and he laid there peacefully on my lap, shallowly breathing. The vet came once more and it was finished. My best friend was gone. I sat there with him on my lap, on the cold floor. I didn't want to leave. The nurse came in, I could barely breathe I was crying so hard. But I had to let him go. They needed the room, and my son was starting to make a major fuss in the waiting room with my mother. 

I didn't want to leave him, much like my Uncle Ian only a few years before. I just didn't want to leave. Leaving made it real. The dream's I've been having lately have all been happy. We're snuggling and running and spending time with each other like we did when he was still alive. But I always wake up, look for him in a daze, and then realize he's gone and remember the feeling of his lifeless body in my arms.