I sat at work Saturday evening--crying and listening to the Neville Brothers' "Fearless" over and over until what happened in the back room of the vet clinic seemed less like a sad defeat and more like something brave and true and strong as love.
I am trying not to brood on it because Pickle is gone past all recall and I can't know if I made the right decision. It just seemed like the only one I could make at the time. He was sinking and suffering and there was nothing to be done for him. Life was finished.
I don't feel brave and loving. Just very very sad.