Max choked on a hot dog the other night. He swiped it off a plate in his familiar Helen Keller imitation. Beth had to stick her fingers in his mouth and literally drag it out of his throat. She still has her fingers.
I can't believe I said this to her. But I said, "Next time let him choke."
I'm still not sure if I meant that or not.
He's almost 17 with a serious thyroid tumor. He's stopped grooming himself. His belly fur is matted. I tried, gently, to brush him and he nearly took off my hand. His eyes are so hollow you can almost see his sinuses. He's skeletal. He's arthritic. NOT too arthritic, however, to climb onto the kitchen table and help himself to a bag of cheesey poofs. He opens the bag himself. Neatly, I might add.
I know I say this every few months (and he fools me every time) but the end is near. I think about taking him to the vet to do the dirty deed, but he goes berserk there. I'm not exaggerating. I'm talking about serious violence! He roars, claws, bites, spits, thrashes, and urinates. Tranking him only makes this worse. I don't want his last moments on earth to be spent in raging terror. Which, come to think of it, would be the case if she had let him choke. So I'm happy she didn't.
OK, that's depressing. Shutting about now about poor Max.