An air of sadness around Chez Lock this evening…
Stevie the Shi-Tzu (formerly Nelson because of his one eye) was rescued from an abusive home by my mother around 1995. Recently, he lost the sight in his one good eye and my mother was saying that he was becoming increasingly frail. I didn’t believer her as the dog was walking around, still eating and barking his little head off. He was still doing this up until last night when I heard him being walked. Even Alex the Wonderdog reacted when he went past the house. Some sick dog, eh?
Soooo…today I got a tearful call from her at about 6pm asking if The Missus was home from Frankfurt. No she wasn’t, I had told my mother earlier that she wouldn’t be back until the evening. My mother told me that Stevie needed to be taken to the vet to be put down. He was apparently writhing around in agony and something needed to be done this instant. I offered to have a look at him, but my mother flatly refused. I didn’t believe that the dog was that sick. Frail, yes. Sick, no. Ready for the big dog basket in the sky, certainly not. She wouldn’t let me see the dog and she couldn’t wait for the next morning when we could all go to the vets together and be supportive. I said I was trying to help, but we ended the conversation on bad terms as these things usually do.
About ten minutes later, I heard a car door and I saw my mother being driven off to the vets by some unknown woman. Obviously it was time for Stevie to meet his maker. Unfortunately, I wished I could said goodbye or at least accompanied them to the vets, but as usual, I am treated like a second-class citizen and held at arms length.
When The Missus returned from her trip at 7pm, I told her what had happened and we were both upset about it. My mother has a way of manipulating a situation so that you end up looking a complete cunt. As The Missus said, “What will the neighbours think? We didn’t take your mum and the dog to the vets.” True. People will talk (as people do around here and my mother is well known in the area) but that doesn’t matter, does it? The funny this is that The Missus has loyally ferried my mother and Stevie the Dog to the vets for the past five years. She has planned days off around vets appointments, such is the level of commitment from our end.
I called my mother on the phone and asked her about the dog, but the phone degenerated in to the slanging match. I am the villian because I am a horrible inconsiderate son and I should care about her feelings. I do care about her feelings, but was more concerned about the dog. I told her I constantly feel that I am being pushed backwards by her and pushed into a situation where I feel total resentment for her. I asked her how she would feel if Alex the Wonderdog was in the same position and if she would care and want to be involved? “No,” she replied, “He’s your dog and I wouldn’t want to interfere.” That’s how cold she can be. The next minute she can be crying her heart out.
I don’t understand how you can engage with people on any level and then expect to be detached and then expect to empathise all at once.
Give me support
Don’t give me support
Give me support
I feel confused. She messes with my mind. Now the really odd thing is that before all this and before the dog took a turn for the worse (which I still don’t believe), The Missus and I discussed my mother and her up-and-coming 60th birthday. We reckoned that because it was a milestone and a time to celebrate, that she would put up the roadblocks and cause an argument. She has done this for years. When we got engaged, she was upset because she was the last to hear about it (an unfortunate turn of events). She got pissed off when we announced our wedding. She didn’t talk to anyone at our wedding. She never congratulated me when I got my degree, for example. Whenever there’s time for enjoyment and celebration, she turns it into a time of brooding resentment. As a child, Christmases were always grim with her because if I didn’t show just the right amount enthusiasm and gratitude for my presents there would be arguments and I would be labelled ungrateful and wicked.
Now I am not saying she plans all this stuff, but events always seem to conspire against us and frankly, I am too old and tired to be dealing with this stuff now. Why can’t we support each other? Why does it always descend into arguments? Why does it always have to take on the gravitas of a badly-written, badly-acted soap opera?
Of course, the one I feel sorry for is little Stevie. Despite only having one eye and being physical weak, he was always a happy little dog. I don’t think he was given a fair chance and I have a real problem forgiving my mother for this. Why is it that once a dog stops being 100% functional, the needle comes out? Why can’t we be a little more sympathetic and clean up the wet patches and let them die a quiet, dignified death in their basket with their favourite toy and blanket?
I don’t know…I really don’t know…

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