This is one phrase that I hate to say, like the end of an age, but it really isn’t.
My dog is nearly sixteen, old for a dog, especially one of his size and statute. I knew the day was coming, but I hate to see it.
When we first got Sherman, he was not a young dog, six and a towing tip of my dad’s. I remember it like yesterday, when my dad and I came home with Sherman, my mom went bonkers, said, “Does it look like we need another dog?” He wasn’t the prettiest looking but his temperament was perfect, he loved going for walks and playing in the back yard with our other dogs. He was doing good up until the last two months. You see, he’s a chow, lab mix, not a small dog in the least and unfortunately arthritis got to him and made it harder and harder for him to get up. Well today, when I went out to take care of all my dogs, I nearly cried at the look of Sherman, he was lying next to the house, when we called his name, he barely picked up his head. We had to pick him up and move him to the opposite side of the house so that our painter could paint.
I know he’s suffering and that’s the last thing I ever wanted him to experience. I know that my parents are going to have to put him down, all I can say is I’m glad I won’t be home tomorrow, but I no he’s going to be in a better place. He won’t be suffering and I do believe animals go to heaven too.
After all, God created them and God loves and takes care of all his creations. So, I guess all I can say is Goodbye Sherman, at least till I see you again.