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We euthanized my father's German Shorthaired Pointer, Zipper, yesterday at about 6PM. Zipper was 11-1/2 years old, a ripe old age for her breed. Earlier this summer she was diagnosed with the diabetes that would destroy her liver, kidneys, and thyroid. The poor girl wasn't in good shape at the end. Which isn't to say that she was ever really in "good" shape to begin with.

Good dog, Zipper.

Dad originally bought Zipper second-hand, as her original owner found high-strung Zipper to be too much of a handful. Zipper was intended as pet for Chere, but that never quite worked out. Even as a young dog, Zip was neurotic enough to consider a pencil lying on the floor to be the equivalent of an electrified fence. In her need for order, she ended up being more of a tattle-tale on Chere's frequent mischief than a playmate. Though Chere tolerated Zipper, our first poodle was never really keen on having a stool pigeon for a pack mate.

Zipper was always skittish and was once full of nervous energy, hence the name Trey gave her. She never had full control of her hind legs, and they tended to vibrate at high speed when she was excited. Her hind claws could tap out something of a racket as she impatiently watched the clock hands work their way towards treat time.

Once the diabetes was diagnosed, treat-time lost a lot of its meaning. I can't think it much of a coincidence that not too long after we took away the very thing that gave her days meaning, Zipper finally gave up the ghost. She knew that some things just aren't worth living for.

She was a good dog, and I loved her.

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To be continued...


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