I find myself torn. Torn between relief and melancholy. Earlier it was relief. Now, I am overcome with sadness.
I am taking Argus to UC Davis tomorrow and I’ll leave him there so he can have his front left leg amputated on Tuesday. Greg and I will pick him up on Wednesday.
Today marks the end of an era. Our five years with Argus As We Know Him.
Argus has been himself, for the most part, since we got him on the narcotic pain medication one month ago. He still loves chasing squirrels and is at the ready upon hearing the words, “Let’s go.” We had a wonderful romp at the beach two weeks ago and I took him for a hike at a favorite trail on Thursday, knowing it would be the last time on all four legs.
The family unit headed to Monterey this weekend for Greg’s and my last race of the season. Argus wasn’t himself. For one, he settled in our hotel room without being bribed or reprimanded or cajoled. We visited friends in their hotel down the street and he promptly settled at our feet with minimal investigation of his surroundings. Most noticeably, he didn’t want to play on the beach with Greg after lunch today. I am relieved and ready to take him tomorrow to remove the pain — his leg — that is limiting him.
And yet, I am so sad when I think of the reality of it all. That this isn’t a cure, only a pain management technique. As I snuggled with him on the couch tonight, I couldn’t help but think ahead. I am certain they will tell me, as is the case with any/every surgery, that there is a chance he will not make it through.
I am confident he will and we will take Argus’ lead as he adjusts to life on three legs. But I am sad for myself. And sad for Greg. Mostly I am sad that the end is nearer than seems fair.