When these guys told us our dog had cancer, I couldn't believe it.
We were going to lose the little guy once and for all, I chuckled to myself.
Then the really bad news.
They wanted a god-awful amount of money to put him down.
We discussed it at dinner that evening with friends, who generously offered an alternative knowing we were short on money.
They'd take him to their ranch in WIckenburg, and in a ceremonial 'last fetch' Cindy would throw his favorite chew toy out into the desert one last time while Ed peppered him with his varmint rifle.
This rather than lay on a cold stainless steel table and go out like a death-row inmate getting a lethal injection!
A pretty good plan I thought, considering he actually deserved both methods for twice shitting on my pillow in the last month.
My wife disagreed and the conversation was over.
Instead, we, or rather I, had to endure another three months of this little shitzdoodle or whatever the hell he was, crapping in his dinner bowl, ruining our oriental rugs, and once more crapping on my pillow before she finally threw in the towel and took him to DC Ranch Animal Hospital.
Here's some cheap advice.
If your vet tells you your dog has cancer, pull the plug on him right then and there.
Say a few words, give him his last rites, pay the fee, cough up another sixty five bucks for the cremation cost and get it over with.
Trust me, it'll be worth it.