This was a tough question, which basically translated to, “How much did I think Loki was worth?” I had, according to the sheet, four options from which I could choose. They read something like this:
1) I am a complete miser who is more concerned about spending my money at whatever vacation I’m on than my dog. Kill her.
2) I sort of love my dog but not enough to give up a trip to Disney World. Give her a $100 bucks worth of treatment and then let her die.
3) Spend up to $500 dollars to make the pooch better. That’s pretty good, right?
4) I am a saint or else loaded. Spend as much money as you need on my angel.
I marked the $500 option. I was not a saint, and I was not loaded. I wanted to be a saint, but I just didn’t see how you could do that without the money. I could take out loans, I supposed, but would it really make sense for me to put myself even more deeply in debt just to give Loki the chance at an extra year or two? She was already seven. But maybe that was the sort of logic that only occurred to people who were too selfish to think of the well-being of anyone besides themselves.
Loki had been there for me for years. She’d put up with my slower than desired jogging pace, endured the bagged dry dog food I bought her instead of the special canned stuff, and even allowed the occasional Halloween costume of doggy prom princess. Shouldn’t I be more grateful? I was grateful. I am grateful. But I still couldn’t, without breaking my bank, spend thousands of dollars on my dog if she got sick.
So here’s how I’ve rationalized my decision. To begin with, I think Loki could probably care less if I let them cut her open or pump her full of enough pills to keep her floating along for a few extra months. That’s something only we stupid humans worry about. What Loki worries about is when we are going to go for a walk, and if, once on that walk, she will be allowed to sniff out the squatting spots of fellow canines. Once she’s done that, she’ll worry if she will be allowed to pee over them or—if she’s really lucky and I’m feeling good, and she has things working just right—completely eradicate the scent with a more effective fecal bomb. Loki worries about how much of that steak on my plate I’m gonna eat because maybe she wouldn’t mind a bite. Loki worries about whether or not if, once I’ve fallen asleep, she can sneak her way from the dog bed and floor to the coveted position on the human bed and remain there, uncaught, until morning.
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