Wrong.
When I was nine years old, my family adopted a black Labrador called Jet. We collected her when she was six years old, full of life and energy. Yesterday we had to put her down when she was fifteen, tired of life and lacking energy.
Nine years is a long time. She was part of the family, and did nearly everything with us until she became unable to. We took her on holiday, slept with her (she hated fireworks, and one bonfire night I let her sleep in my room, one night turned into two years...) and shared hundreds of memories with her.
The past two years were tough for her, she suffered with arthritis and old age. Her weight decreased and her mentality followed, she wasn't the same. Yesterday morning she completely collapsed and wasn't eating or drinking, blanking the entire family.
I had always promised myself that if she had to be put down, I would be there. And I was, even though it was the most painful experience of my life. As the vet inserted the drugs into her, she became relaxed and slowly lifted her head to face mine, looking me dead in the eyes, almost thanking me.
Pet owners will understand and share the pain, but those who don't will not. It's a strange sensation losing a pet, you mourn as if they are human even though they are not.
It's unexplainable.
But she was technically my best friend, no matter how sad and stupid that sounds, she was. We used to do everything together, and there were many occasions in which I spoke to her. It's bizarre but true.
I guess I've just got to grow up and let this part go.
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