You can pay for euthanasia with a credit card.
Last week, I drove the wife and her pet to the veterinarian's office -- Heidi in a blanket and her master in tears -- to put the trembling 14-year-old dachshund to sleep.
During the few minutes we were waiting and waiting and waiting in the office, there was a song playing in the background, the love theme from "Top Gun." Only one of the threesome noticed it was "Take My Breath Away."
The two came as a package deal -- a woman and a beast not much larger than a loaf of French bread. Both had left a chaotic household.
The little wiener dog always hid under the bed whenever her master's fiance would visit. Heidi had trust issues.
Apparently dogs offer unconditional love. Cats, what more than coughed up hairballs?
Everyone knew that my love for animals ends after each meal. Never had a pet. Never wanted one. Lived in a house whose owner had a dog -- Redbones. Never liked it. Just the thought of living with a beast, even one with impossibly expressive eyes, is repulsive.
She said they weren't a package deal. Technically, she was right. But forcing someone to choose between her best bud and new husband was no way to start a marriage.
Lovely. Just lovely. Now what to doâ¢
At the time, "build a dog condo" seemed like a good idea. The carpenter built one that was roughly 8 feet long, 5 feet high and 3 feet deep with a hole for forced air heating and air conditioning. Nine-hundred dollars for a dog -- a dog.
The condo was in the garage and connected to the ductwork by a silver slinky kind of thing that connects dryers to vents.
When her master was gone, the dog would come out hesitantly to use the yard as her personal septic system. But only if this new interloper opened the condo door and then stood far away. Even after feeding her that disgusting-looking and smelly dog food (is there another kind?) Heidi remained wary.
With her master's help, Heidi slowly redeployed from her house to the foot of the basement steps -- making the condo a $900 shelf for dog paraphernalia.
She had full use of the basement, a fenced backyard and a screened porch to catch some rays.
To the pharmacist she was Heidi Vassilaros.
Lovely.
She stopped hiding from visitors. And when her master went on business trips, the dog had her stomach scratched since there was no one else to touch her. She tried to give away our secret whenever her master and I were in the basement. She would walk over and lie on her back by me waiting for the magic fingers. Her master was oblivious.
Cushing's Disease and other ailments were taking their toll, her muscle mass and 20 percent of her weight.
But for months, that frail little dog stared death in the eye. And every day death backed down.
The last time her personal masseur spoke to her, her ears perked up and she cocked her head the way she always did. But she stared at the basement wall instead of at the person behind her. Dementia, the vets thought.
The threesome endured much the last few months. Both vets said it was time.
And that time was around 8:15 last Monday morning. It was very hard on her master in the vet's office with that song in the background. But not so bad for the interloper. He knew better than to make eye contact with Heidi.
