Crete's Corner

Ulf Murphy said:
Question for you since @bconcrete seems to have forgotten about this page:

If you could go back to one moment in your life and change the choice of what you did and change the outcome, knowing that you have no idea if your life would change for better or worse, what would that moment be, or would you not take that chance and not change a thing?
Click to expand...
OK, therapy session incoming....

I usually don't regret too many of my decisions because at the time I made them, I had reasons for them even if they turned out bad or I would do them differently now.

BUT, the one thing I totally regret is how my first dog passed away. To this day I hate every fucking decision I made and it is one of the few things in my life I really really feel bad about because I kind of abandoned him on his last day. My first dog (as an adult) was a Bassett hound named Buddy. I originally bought him for an old girlfriend who was living on her own at the time. This was when I was 20 I guess.... of course it was a dumb idea. Fast forward a year and all kinds of drama goes down, she can't have the dog any more so I take him and get my first apartment. And the next 5 years it was just me and Buddy living in our apartment on Staten Island across the street from St Vincents Hospital. Then I met my wife and shortly after it was me buddy and my wife for the next 5 years.

So we're living back in SI at 'the compound' (a 2-building property with a bunch of family living there) and all is good. Then one weekend after a family BBQ my dog seems a little sick. Not really eating much, seems a bit lethargic. I figured he ate a bunch of shit at the BBW and was probably feeling it. But by Wednesday he was still not well so I took him to the vet and the vet examines him and gives me some antibiotics for him. But the next 2 days he doesn't really eat and won't take his pills and he just lays around all day. I was planing to take him back to the vet on Monday if I couldn't get him to eat or take his meds over the weekend. But by Saturday night we found him hiding in the bathroom coughing up a little bit of blood. Uh oh. It's midnight on Saturday, my vet doesn't open until Monday and there are no 24-hour vets on SI. The closest one is in Flatbush Brooklyn. Awesome place to be heading at midnight on a Saturday night.

So we throw Buddy in the car and get down to the vet as fast as we could. Skeeectchy ass neighborhood. We get there around 12:30 they take him in back and do an exam and the vet comes out and tells me that the dog's lungs are full of fluid, he has cancer, and we should put him down right now. What?!? I tell her, this dog was 100% healthy just a week ago, how is that possible? She says the only other possibility is if the dog ate some rat poison or something like that. Well not that I know of. But I know this dog did not develop stage 4 cancer in 1 week. So she asks me if I wanted them to do a culture of the stuff in his lungs to see if it is cancer. Yes I do.... so broke ass me takes out a credit card on the spot to pay for this emergency visit and test ($2,500) because I was totally unprepared to make any kind of a rational decision at this point.

So they do the test and they have him in back and they have me come back and ask me what I want to do, still hinting I should put him down. He is in this sort of an oxygen tank/kennel thing they had... like a giant stainless steel kennel that had oxygen pumped in it for dogs with breathing problems. By this time it was like 2AM on Sunday morning. So I tell them to keep him here in this oxygen tank thing for the day and I'll come back and get him first thing tomorrow morning and take him to my vet for his opinion. And if I really did have to put the dog down, I'd rather do it there. But I just absolutely couldn't believe the dog was really that sick.... I was positive he didn't have cancer.

So later on that day (Sunday) around 5pm or so the vet called and asked if I was coming by to visit him. I left there around 2:30am and I really didn't want to go back to that neighborhood an extra time when I was planning to get him at 7am on Monday anyway. So I asked how he was doing and they said he ate a little ham, and I said ok I'l come by in the morning because I don't want to go there and get him excited and then leave him again. And I did want to leave him in the oxygen until I got him to my vet. So I didn't go. Then around 2am on Monday morning the vet called, woke me up, and said your dog is not breathing any longer but his heart is still beating. Would you like us to resuscitate him? WTF?!? When I left the vet that night earlier they had me decide on a DNR then (which I said DNR). Now they are calling me in to ask me that?? Fuck. I said no.... if he is really that sick and can't breathe, I feel like I'd be torturing him. So he died there on that Monday morning.

I HATE everything about how that all went down. I left my dog in a fucking stainless steel box at a strange vet alone for the last 24-hours of his life. And probably super painful hours. All because I was in denial that he was really that sick. What a fucking asshole I am. To this day, 20 years later I still hate myself for leaving that dog there. The last time I saw him was in that stupid box and I hate it.

So a week or so later the results of the $2,500 test I paid for, obviously a total waste of money, and the dog did not have cancer. And they had no other info for me other than it wasn't cancer. What the hell. So I'm a back at the compound and I'm telling my family about the results and the dog did not have cancer like I suspect, but the only other thing the vet thought it could have been was rat poison. My dad gets real fucking quiet. Turns out he was using rat poison in the alley way by the trash cans.... that area was fenced off and the dogs could not get to it. But this is a fucking Bassett hound... his nose is going make him find shit. So I think my dad inadvertently poisoned my dog. SMH.

So that is probably my biggest regret and it involves my dog.

When my next dog Smokey Joe was old and about to check out, total opposite scenario. He was an old Sheppard and couldn't walk anymore so they had to come to the house to put him down. I held that dog's paw on the way out. So on the flip side I feel really good about that scenario.

Sorry Buddy :(
 
cmvideo75 said:
OK, therapy session incoming....

I usually don't regret too many of my decisions because at the time I made them, I had reasons for them even if they turned out bad or I would do them differently now.

BUT, the one thing I totally regret is how my first dog passed away. To this day I hate every fucking decision I made and it is one of the few things in my life I really really feel bad about because I kind of abandoned him on his last day. My first dog (as an adult) was a Bassett hound named Buddy. I originally bought him for an old girlfriend who was living on her own at the time. This was when I was 20 I guess.... of course it was a dumb idea. Fast forward a year and all kinds of drama goes down, she can't have the dog any more so I take him and get my first apartment. And the next 5 years it was just me and Buddy living in our apartment on Staten Island across the street from St Vincents Hospital. Then I met my wife and shortly after it was me buddy and my wife for the next 5 years.

So we're living back in SI at 'the compound' (a 2-building property with a bunch of family living there) and all is good. Then one weekend after a family BBQ my dog seems a little sick. Not really eating much, seems a bit lethargic. I figured he ate a bunch of shit at the BBW and was probably feeling it. But by Wednesday he was still not well so I took him to the vet and the vet examines him and gives me some antibiotics for him. But the next 2 days he doesn't really eat and won't take his pills and he just lays around all day. I was planing to take him back to the vet on Monday if I couldn't get him to eat or take his meds over the weekend. But by Saturday night we found him hiding in the bathroom coughing up a little bit of blood. Uh oh. It's midnight on Saturday, my vet doesn't open until Monday and there are no 24-hour vets on SI. The closest one is in Flatbush Brooklyn. Awesome place to be heading at midnight on a Saturday night.

So we throw Buddy in the car and get down to the vet as fast as we could. Skeeectchy ass neighborhood. We get there around 12:30 they take him in back and do an exam and the vet comes out and tells me that the dog's lungs are full of fluid, he has cancer, and we should put him down right now. What?!? I tell her, this dog was 100% healthy just a week ago, how is that possible? She says the only other possibility is if the dog ate some rat poison or something like that. Well not that I know of. But I know this dog did not develop stage 4 cancer in 1 week. So she asks me if I wanted them to do a culture of the stuff in his lungs to see if it is cancer. Yes I do.... so broke ass me takes out a credit card on the spot to pay for this emergency visit and test ($2,500) because I was totally unprepared to make any kind of a rational decision at this point.

So they do the test and they have him in back and they have me come back and ask me what I want to do, still hinting I should put him down. He is in this sort of an oxygen tank/kennel thing they had... like a giant stainless steel kennel that had oxygen pumped in it for dogs with breathing problems. By this time it was like 2AM on Sunday morning. So I tell them to keep him here in this oxygen tank thing for the day and I'll come back and get him first thing tomorrow morning and take him to my vet for his opinion. And if I really did have to put the dog down, I'd rather do it there. But I just absolutely couldn't believe the dog was really that sick.... I was positive he didn't have cancer.

So later on that day (Sunday) around 5pm or so the vet called and asked if I was coming by to visit him. I left there around 2:30am and I really didn't want to go back to that neighborhood an extra time when I was planning to get him at 7am on Monday anyway. So I asked how he was doing and they said he ate a little ham, and I said ok I'l come by in the morning because I don't want to go there and get him excited and then leave him again. And I did want to leave him in the oxygen until I got him to my vet. So I didn't go. Then around 2am on Monday morning the vet called, woke me up, and said your dog is not breathing any longer but his heart is still beating. Would you like us to resuscitate him? WTF?!? When I left the vet that night earlier they had me decide on a DNR then (which I said DNR). Now they are calling me in to ask me that?? Fuck. I said no.... if he is really that sick and can't breathe, I feel like I'd be torturing him. So he died there on that Monday morning.

I HATE everything about how that all went down. I left my dog in a fucking stainless steel box at a strange vet alone for the last 24-hours of his life. And probably super painful hours. All because I was in denial that he was really that sick. What a fucking asshole I am. To this day, 20 years later I still hate myself for leaving that dog there. The last time I saw him was in that stupid box and I hate it.

So a week or so later the results of the $2,500 test I paid for, obviously a total waste of money, and the dog did not have cancer. And they had no other info for me other than it wasn't cancer. What the hell. So I'm a back at the compound and I'm telling my family about the results and the dog did not have cancer like I suspect, but the only other thing the vet thought it could have been was rat poison. My dad gets real fucking quiet. Turns out he was using rat poison in the alley way by the trash cans.... that area was fenced off and the dogs could not get to it. But this is a fucking Bassett hound... his nose is going make him find shit. So I think my dad inadvertently poisoned my dog. SMH.

So that is probably my biggest regret and it involves my dog.

When my next dog Smokey Joe was old and about to check out, total opposite scenario. He was an old Sheppard and couldn't walk anymore so they had to come to the house to put him down. I held that dog's paw on the way out. So on the flip side I feel really good about that scenario.

Sorry Buddy :(
Click to expand...
You're an asshole. Not because of how things went down but for splashing my face with water.
 
cmvideo75 said:
OK, therapy session incoming....

I usually don't regret too many of my decisions because at the time I made them, I had reasons for them even if they turned out bad or I would do them differently now.

BUT, the one thing I totally regret is how my first dog passed away. To this day I hate every fucking decision I made and it is one of the few things in my life I really really feel bad about because I kind of abandoned him on his last day. My first dog (as an adult) was a Bassett hound named Buddy. I originally bought him for an old girlfriend who was living on her own at the time. This was when I was 20 I guess.... of course it was a dumb idea. Fast forward a year and all kinds of drama goes down, she can't have the dog any more so I take him and get my first apartment. And the next 5 years it was just me and Buddy living in our apartment on Staten Island across the street from St Vincents Hospital. Then I met my wife and shortly after it was me buddy and my wife for the next 5 years.

So we're living back in SI at 'the compound' (a 2-building property with a bunch of family living there) and all is good. Then one weekend after a family BBQ my dog seems a little sick. Not really eating much, seems a bit lethargic. I figured he ate a bunch of shit at the BBW and was probably feeling it. But by Wednesday he was still not well so I took him to the vet and the vet examines him and gives me some antibiotics for him. But the next 2 days he doesn't really eat and won't take his pills and he just lays around all day. I was planing to take him back to the vet on Monday if I couldn't get him to eat or take his meds over the weekend. But by Saturday night we found him hiding in the bathroom coughing up a little bit of blood. Uh oh. It's midnight on Saturday, my vet doesn't open until Monday and there are no 24-hour vets on SI. The closest one is in Flatbush Brooklyn. Awesome place to be heading at midnight on a Saturday night.

So we throw Buddy in the car and get down to the vet as fast as we could. Skeeectchy ass neighborhood. We get there around 12:30 they take him in back and do an exam and the vet comes out and tells me that the dog's lungs are full of fluid, he has cancer, and we should put him down right now. What?!? I tell her, this dog was 100% healthy just a week ago, how is that possible? She says the only other possibility is if the dog ate some rat poison or something like that. Well not that I know of. But I know this dog did not develop stage 4 cancer in 1 week. So she asks me if I wanted them to do a culture of the stuff in his lungs to see if it is cancer. Yes I do.... so broke ass me takes out a credit card on the spot to pay for this emergency visit and test ($2,500) because I was totally unprepared to make any kind of a rational decision at this point.

So they do the test and they have him in back and they have me come back and ask me what I want to do, still hinting I should put him down. He is in this sort of an oxygen tank/kennel thing they had... like a giant stainless steel kennel that had oxygen pumped in it for dogs with breathing problems. By this time it was like 2AM on Sunday morning. So I tell them to keep him here in this oxygen tank thing for the day and I'll come back and get him first thing tomorrow morning and take him to my vet for his opinion. And if I really did have to put the dog down, I'd rather do it there. But I just absolutely couldn't believe the dog was really that sick.... I was positive he didn't have cancer.

So later on that day (Sunday) around 5pm or so the vet called and asked if I was coming by to visit him. I left there around 2:30am and I really didn't want to go back to that neighborhood an extra time when I was planning to get him at 7am on Monday anyway. So I asked how he was doing and they said he ate a little ham, and I said ok I'l come by in the morning because I don't want to go there and get him excited and then leave him again. And I did want to leave him in the oxygen until I got him to my vet. So I didn't go. Then around 2am on Monday morning the vet called, woke me up, and said your dog is not breathing any longer but his heart is still beating. Would you like us to resuscitate him? WTF?!? When I left the vet that night earlier they had me decide on a DNR then (which I said DNR). Now they are calling me in to ask me that?? Fuck. I said no.... if he is really that sick and can't breathe, I feel like I'd be torturing him. So he died there on that Monday morning.

I HATE everything about how that all went down. I left my dog in a fucking stainless steel box at a strange vet alone for the last 24-hours of his life. And probably super painful hours. All because I was in denial that he was really that sick. What a fucking asshole I am. To this day, 20 years later I still hate myself for leaving that dog there. The last time I saw him was in that stupid box and I hate it.

So a week or so later the results of the $2,500 test I paid for, obviously a total waste of money, and the dog did not have cancer. And they had no other info for me other than it wasn't cancer. What the hell. So I'm a back at the compound and I'm telling my family about the results and the dog did not have cancer like I suspect, but the only other thing the vet thought it could have been was rat poison. My dad gets real fucking quiet. Turns out he was using rat poison in the alley way by the trash cans.... that area was fenced off and the dogs could not get to it. But this is a fucking Bassett hound... his nose is going make him find shit. So I think my dad inadvertently poisoned my dog. SMH.

So that is probably my biggest regret and it involves my dog.

When my next dog Smokey Joe was old and about to check out, total opposite scenario. He was an old Sheppard and couldn't walk anymore so they had to come to the house to put him down. I held that dog's paw on the way out. So on the flip side I feel really good about that scenario.

Sorry Buddy :(
Click to expand...
I feel you brother, I've put 3 great dogs down in the past 5 years or so.
 
nubbynub76 said:
You're an asshole. Not because of how things went down but for splashing my face with water.
Click to expand...
Dude, every time I think about that scenario, including when I was typing this out, I tear up. But I take it as a life lesson and try to do better next time. But man... I really did that dog wrong at the end (inadvertently, but dumbly) and it was just me and him for so long. Arrrrrgh.

The other somewhat regret I have is before I moved here to DE I meant to visit the one doctor in SI that took care of me when I had no insurance and was left to die by the other doctors. He was awesome and became my doctor for many years before moving. I wanted to see him before I left just to say thanks for being so awesome when so many other doctors were so shitty. But I got too busy and didn't get there. Plus I figured if anything serious popped up I could always go back to him since I still had family in the area anyway.

Lo and behold, 2 months after I moved to DE he has a massive heart attack and dies. Ahhhhhh. Damn it. I definitely regret not going to see him. So now, if you got something to say to someone, fucking say it! They could be dead tomorrow.
 
cmvideo75 said:
I HATE everything about how that all went down. I left my dog in a fucking stainless steel box at a strange vet alone for the last 24-hours of his life. And probably super painful hours. All because I was in denial that he was really that sick. What a fucking asshole I am. To this day, 20 years later I still hate myself for leaving that dog there. The last time I saw him was in that stupid box and I hate it.
Click to expand...

There was absolutely nothing to be ashamed of in that entire story. Certainly nothing to hate yourself over. You went to a very dangerous NY neighborhood in the middle of the night for him. You took the advice of professionals under extreme duress for him. You put yourself into a financially bad position to find a real diagnosis for him. You left him in the best care you could afford at the time. The only thing you didn't do for him is give up hope. And for that optimism, you were unable to say goodbye. And that sucks, but Buddy will be waiting for you. And he will be really, really happy to see you. And he will not care how the last 2 days ended. He will only remember the amazing care and love you gave him for over a decade.

You should remember that part too.
 
Ulf Murphy said:
Question for you since @bconcrete seems to have forgotten about this page:

If you could go back to one moment in your life and change the choice of what you did and change the outcome, knowing that you have no idea if your life would change for better or worse, what would that moment be, or would you not take that chance and not change a thing?
Click to expand...
1. I enjoy my life, i love my wife i also like my wife, which is huge. My kids, would not change them for the world. (Well I would probably not have my son have autism, its not hard for me, but I think it will be hard for him the older he gets, and we always want our kids to have a better life than else.) Although I really have no idea how it affects him, these are my hang ups.

So, the big life changers for pure fantasy only. Would be taking 1 path and dedicated 100% to it. Either focusing 100% on music, or 100% on football. I half ass both but was fairly decent at both. Focusing on 1 mightve given me a different career path. (Fantasy only).

Real life changes would be seeing my brother & my dad more before they died and buying that fancy condo for a nice investment.
 
cmvideo75 said:
OK, therapy session incoming....

I usually don't regret too many of my decisions because at the time I made them, I had reasons for them even if they turned out bad or I would do them differently now.

BUT, the one thing I totally regret is how my first dog passed away. To this day I hate every fucking decision I made and it is one of the few things in my life I really really feel bad about because I kind of abandoned him on his last day. My first dog (as an adult) was a Bassett hound named Buddy. I originally bought him for an old girlfriend who was living on her own at the time. This was when I was 20 I guess.... of course it was a dumb idea. Fast forward a year and all kinds of drama goes down, she can't have the dog any more so I take him and get my first apartment. And the next 5 years it was just me and Buddy living in our apartment on Staten Island across the street from St Vincents Hospital. Then I met my wife and shortly after it was me buddy and my wife for the next 5 years.

So we're living back in SI at 'the compound' (a 2-building property with a bunch of family living there) and all is good. Then one weekend after a family BBQ my dog seems a little sick. Not really eating much, seems a bit lethargic. I figured he ate a bunch of shit at the BBW and was probably feeling it. But by Wednesday he was still not well so I took him to the vet and the vet examines him and gives me some antibiotics for him. But the next 2 days he doesn't really eat and won't take his pills and he just lays around all day. I was planing to take him back to the vet on Monday if I couldn't get him to eat or take his meds over the weekend. But by Saturday night we found him hiding in the bathroom coughing up a little bit of blood. Uh oh. It's midnight on Saturday, my vet doesn't open until Monday and there are no 24-hour vets on SI. The closest one is in Flatbush Brooklyn. Awesome place to be heading at midnight on a Saturday night.

So we throw Buddy in the car and get down to the vet as fast as we could. Skeeectchy ass neighborhood. We get there around 12:30 they take him in back and do an exam and the vet comes out and tells me that the dog's lungs are full of fluid, he has cancer, and we should put him down right now. What?!? I tell her, this dog was 100% healthy just a week ago, how is that possible? She says the only other possibility is if the dog ate some rat poison or something like that. Well not that I know of. But I know this dog did not develop stage 4 cancer in 1 week. So she asks me if I wanted them to do a culture of the stuff in his lungs to see if it is cancer. Yes I do.... so broke ass me takes out a credit card on the spot to pay for this emergency visit and test ($2,500) because I was totally unprepared to make any kind of a rational decision at this point.

So they do the test and they have him in back and they have me come back and ask me what I want to do, still hinting I should put him down. He is in this sort of an oxygen tank/kennel thing they had... like a giant stainless steel kennel that had oxygen pumped in it for dogs with breathing problems. By this time it was like 2AM on Sunday morning. So I tell them to keep him here in this oxygen tank thing for the day and I'll come back and get him first thing tomorrow morning and take him to my vet for his opinion. And if I really did have to put the dog down, I'd rather do it there. But I just absolutely couldn't believe the dog was really that sick.... I was positive he didn't have cancer.

So later on that day (Sunday) around 5pm or so the vet called and asked if I was coming by to visit him. I left there around 2:30am and I really didn't want to go back to that neighborhood an extra time when I was planning to get him at 7am on Monday anyway. So I asked how he was doing and they said he ate a little ham, and I said ok I'l come by in the morning because I don't want to go there and get him excited and then leave him again. And I did want to leave him in the oxygen until I got him to my vet. So I didn't go. Then around 2am on Monday morning the vet called, woke me up, and said your dog is not breathing any longer but his heart is still beating. Would you like us to resuscitate him? WTF?!? When I left the vet that night earlier they had me decide on a DNR then (which I said DNR). Now they are calling me in to ask me that?? Fuck. I said no.... if he is really that sick and can't breathe, I feel like I'd be torturing him. So he died there on that Monday morning.

I HATE everything about how that all went down. I left my dog in a fucking stainless steel box at a strange vet alone for the last 24-hours of his life. And probably super painful hours. All because I was in denial that he was really that sick. What a fucking asshole I am. To this day, 20 years later I still hate myself for leaving that dog there. The last time I saw him was in that stupid box and I hate it.

So a week or so later the results of the $2,500 test I paid for, obviously a total waste of money, and the dog did not have cancer. And they had no other info for me other than it wasn't cancer. What the hell. So I'm a back at the compound and I'm telling my family about the results and the dog did not have cancer like I suspect, but the only other thing the vet thought it could have been was rat poison. My dad gets real fucking quiet. Turns out he was using rat poison in the alley way by the trash cans.... that area was fenced off and the dogs could not get to it. But this is a fucking Bassett hound... his nose is going make him find shit. So I think my dad inadvertently poisoned my dog. SMH.

So that is probably my biggest regret and it involves my dog.

When my next dog Smokey Joe was old and about to check out, total opposite scenario. He was an old Sheppard and couldn't walk anymore so they had to come to the house to put him down. I held that dog's paw on the way out. So on the flip side I feel really good about that scenario.

Sorry Buddy :(
Click to expand...
Reminds me of the first dog I owned, Zeus. He was a Miniature Dachshund. We'd gotten him as a Christmas present 10 years earlier. This breed is notorious for being resistant to being house-broken because they are drama queens and hate anything resembling cold weather so I was always making him go out to do his business. Especially in January. At the time, my son was 4 and my daughter was almost 1. My MIL would come early, like 6:00 AM, and take over watching the kids so I could go to work. She lived a few hundred yards up the road and I could see her headlights when she was heading to our house.

I see she's coming so I figure I would make Zeus go outside to pee before she gets here. I let him out, and I go out to start my car so it's warmed up. MIL arrives, pulls into our gravel driveway and I hear this loud "YIP!". I knew what had happened before I ran over to Zeus but for those 2 seconds, I hoped it wasn't bad. What I saw when I got to him was one of the worst moments of my life. His head had been run over, his body was twitching and blood was just pouring out of his crushed face. I think I said "Oh no he's gone." as I watched him die. It was awful

I ran over to my MIL and told her what had happened. She had no idea and was just devastated.(It was years before i could even bring up Zeus around her) I had to leave for work so my FIL came over and took care of his body and buried him him under tree on their property. I just held it all in at work the whole day. I didn't want to text my wife something so sad in the middle of her work so I waited. My wife got home from her nursing shift late and as I started to tell her what happened, I just broke down crying. It was so awful. I still hate thinking about it.

I just wish I'd stayed home, told work I would be late or just not go, and took care of his remains myself. I don't know why I didn't looking back. I think I was just in shock.
 
Sedulous said:
Reminds me of the first dog I owned, Zeus. He was a Miniature Dachshund. We'd gotten him as a Christmas present 10 years earlier. This breed is notorious for being resistant to being house-broken because they are drama queens and hate anything resembling cold weather so I was always making him go out to do his business. Especially in January. At the time, my son was 4 and my daughter was almost 1. My MIL would come early, like 6:00 AM, and take over watching the kids so I could go to work. She lived a few hundred yards up the road and I could see her headlights when she was heading to our house.

I see she's coming so I figure I would make Zeus go outside to pee before she gets here. I let him out, and I go out to start my car so it's warmed up. MIL arrives, pulls into our gravel driveway and I hear this loud "YIP!". I knew what had happened before I ran over to Zeus but for those 2 seconds, I hoped it wasn't bad. What I saw when I got to him was one of the worst moments of my life. His head had been run over, his body was twitching and blood was just pouring out of his crushed face. I think I said "Oh no he's gone." as I watched him die. It was awful

I ran over to my MIL and told her what had happened. She had no idea and was just devastated.(It was years before i could even bring up Zeus around her) I had to leave for work so my FIL came over and took care of his body and buried him him under tree on their property. I just held it all in at work the whole day. I didn't want to text my wife something so sad in the middle of her work so I waited. My wife got home from her nursing shift late and as I started to tell her what happened, I just broke down crying. It was so awful. I still hate thinking about it.

I just wish I'd stayed home, told work I would be late or just not go, and took care of his remains myself. I don't know why I didn't looking back. I think I was just in shock.
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Whoa. That's a rough one! I don't know what i'd do if I saw that so any decisions made in that moment can be forgiven. Who's prepared for a scenario like that?? That's awful ... sorry bro.
 
I've always rescued the tough case pit bulls, the ones people are afraid of. Scarred up old boys forced to fight, or tied to trees year round. Best breed ever, if you train them and insist they know you are Alpha. It's on us to ensure our rescue dog is allowed to get comfortable at its own pace.

My husband and I (once upon a time) had a pit puppy that fit in his palm. Only puppy I've ever had, and it changes how you relate to it versus an adult rescue. Like it, admit it or not, the bond is undeniable.

He was solid white, excellent physique. We lived out in the Colorado boonies, Coleville, it was rural and we worked on a ranch together. Our neighbor had a gorgeous German Shepherd that he kept tied to a tree and I never saw it untied or played with or fed. After the weather turned cold, I walked my happy ass across the street and offered to keep the dog inside on my days off (no doghouse, nothin') or come introduce my dog, Fido, and that's as far as I got before he told me precisely what level of ignorance he'd reached.

Face contorted, he lashed out about how pit bulls have been scientifically proven to have locking jaws, are vicious and wild and undomesticatable yes that's a word no it probably isn't, five minute of vituperative pit bill propaganda--blahdy blahdy blahdy. I'd just started a new workload, and the ranch owner didn't want us to bring Fido to work with us when we were doing bovine pregnancy checks, so that morning I left him in our yard on a long hot walker.

I heard a scream I'll never forget when my husband ran to untie Fido. The hot walker tether was wrapped around our fence and around and around his neck, and he was hanging from the branch of our tree. My husband just kept screaming, trying to give Fido mouth to mouth. I had to make him stop, it was too heart wrenching and far too late.

We carried him into the house, and our phone rang. It never rang, unless it was our boss.
It wasn't our boss though, it was one of my brothers calling to tell me our Dad had just died. That's all I remember, until we arrived at our place in Bayfield, a long drive I can't recall. We buried him in our favorite grove, wrapped in his baby blanket. Yes I know it's not a grief contest. It just feels right to say all this, finally. Thanks for sticking with me through the whole saga, appreciate you.
 
Tosh said:
I've always rescued the tough case pit bulls, the ones people are afraid of. Scarred up old boys forced to fight, or tied to trees year round. Best breed ever, if you train them and insist they know you are Alpha. It's on us to ensure our rescue dog is allowed to get comfortable at its own pace.

My husband and I (once upon a time) had a pit puppy that fit in his palm. Only puppy I've ever had, and it changes how you relate to it versus an adult rescue. Like it, admit it or not, the bond is undeniable.

He was solid white, excellent physique. We lived out in the Colorado boonies, Coleville, it was rural and we worked on a ranch together. Our neighbor had a gorgeous German Shepherd that he kept tied to a tree and I never saw it untied or played with or fed. After the weather turned cold, I walked my happy ass across the street and offered to keep the dog inside on my days off (no doghouse, nothin') or come introduce my dog, Fido, and that's as far as I got before he told me precisely what level of ignorance he'd reached.

Face contorted, he lashed out about how pit bulls have been scientifically proven to have locking jaws, are vicious and wild and undomesticatable yes that's a word no it probably isn't, five minute of vituperative pit bill propaganda--blahdy blahdy blahdy. I'd just started a new workload, and the ranch owner didn't want us to bring Fido to work with us when we were doing bovine pregnancy checks, so that morning I left him in our yard on a long hot walker.

I heard a scream I'll never forget when my husband ran to untie Fido. The hot walker tether was wrapped around our fence and around and around his neck, and he was hanging from the branch of our tree. My husband just kept screaming, trying to give Fido mouth to mouth. I had to make him stop, it was too heart wrenching and far too late.

We carried him into the house, and our phone rang. It never rang, unless it was our boss.
It wasn't our boss though, it was one of my brothers calling to tell me our Dad had just died. That's all I remember, until we arrived at our place in Bayfield, a long drive I can't recall. We buried him in our favorite grove, wrapped in his baby blanket. Yes I know it's not a grief contest. It just feels right to say all this, finally. Thanks for sticking with me through the whole saga, appreciate you.
Click to expand...
Yes, I knew who did it. I never told my husband, to protect him. If he knew he would've jumped the Scale O' Fun and pulverized that guy.
 
Years ago, while traveling in my early twenties, when I was under the glowing chandeliers of Munich’s Circus Krone Building, my friend, Master Barnaby—a magician whose sanity had long since departed—accomplished the impossible by training a herd of six-ton African savanna elephants in the delicate art of sleight-of-hand. Barnaby had realized human assistants were far too easy to spot hiding behind false mirrors, whereas his star pupil, Bartholomew, could comfortably conceal an entire brass band behind his left ear. Under Barnaby’s relentless instruction, the pachyderms learned to palm oversized playing cards with their trunks, vanish inside remarkably tight velvet top hats, and perform trunk-of-hand trickery that left European high society utterly bewildered.

The pinnacle of our World Tour was the "Grand Trunk Illusion," set on stage at the
Perth Concert Hall in Australia. Bartholomew would step onto a mahogany pedestal, dramatically drape a sequined cape over his enormous frame, and—with a sharp snap of his trunk—swap places with a single white pigeon. The illusion relied on flawless timing and a heavy-duty hydraulic trampoline system installed under the stage floor. A minor calibration error during a Tuesday matinee, however, caused Bartholomew to overshoot his target destination entirely, sending him crashing upward through the ceiling tiles and landing gently in the middle of a nearby Starbucks coffee shop, perfectly intact and reaching for an almond and chocolate croissant.

Despite structural repair bills from local city councils, Barnaby and his herd booked a record-breaking residency at the MGM Grand in Las Vegas. The partnership reached its logical conclusion when the elephants independently mastered hypnotism and seized total control of the act. Today, Barnaby sits quietly on a velvet stool on the Las Vegas Strip wearing a tiny sequined vest while balance-holding a single painted ball on his nose, completely convinced by Bartholomew that he is, in fact, a very talented flamingo.

I miss those days...
 
IOB WORLDWIDE said:
Years ago, while traveling in my early twenties, when I was under the glowing chandeliers of Munich’s Circus Krone Building, my friend, Master Barnaby—a magician whose sanity had long since departed—accomplished the impossible by training a herd of six-ton African savanna elephants in the delicate art of sleight-of-hand. Barnaby had realized human assistants were far too easy to spot hiding behind false mirrors, whereas his star pupil, Bartholomew, could comfortably conceal an entire brass band behind his left ear. Under Barnaby’s relentless instruction, the pachyderms learned to palm oversized playing cards with their trunks, vanish inside remarkably tight velvet top hats, and perform trunk-of-hand trickery that left European high society utterly bewildered.

The pinnacle of our World Tour was the "Grand Trunk Illusion," set on stage at the
Perth Concert Hall in Australia. Bartholomew would step onto a mahogany pedestal, dramatically drape a sequined cape over his enormous frame, and—with a sharp snap of his trunk—swap places with a single white pigeon. The illusion relied on flawless timing and a heavy-duty hydraulic trampoline system installed under the stage floor. A minor calibration error during a Tuesday matinee, however, caused Bartholomew to overshoot his target destination entirely, sending him crashing upward through the ceiling tiles and landing gently in the middle of a nearby Starbucks coffee shop, perfectly intact and reaching for an almond and chocolate croissant.

Despite structural repair bills from local city councils, Barnaby and his herd booked a record-breaking residency at the MGM Grand in Las Vegas. The partnership reached its logical conclusion when the elephants independently mastered hypnotism and seized total control of the act. Today, Barnaby sits quietly on a velvet stool on the Las Vegas Strip wearing a tiny sequined vest while balance-holding a single painted ball on his nose, completely convinced by Bartholomew that he is, in fact, a very talented flamingo.

I miss those days...
Click to expand...
Reading this brought back a flood of memories. Small world—I actually ran into Barnaby and Bartholomew during that exact same era, though under far more questionable circumstances.


Shortly after the Las Vegas takeover, Barnaby—still fully convinced he was a flamingo and refusing to sleep anywhere other than a heated birdbath—was recruited by the Swiss Banking Association to solve a critical security crisis. Apparently, human safecrackers were using listening devices to decode vault combinations, but nobody had accounted for an elephant with an advanced degree in acoustic levitation.


I happened to be in Zurich at the time, working as a temporary consultant for a mime troupe that had lost its silence. Barnaby’s herd had set up an clandestine laboratory inside an abandoned fondue factory. Bartholomew, now fluent in high-finance negotiations and wearing a tailored three-piece suit constructed from four canvas circus tents, hired me on the spot as his human translator.


Their scheme was breathtakingly simple. Using low-frequency infrasonic rumbles produced by vibrating their left tusks, the elephants could remotely manipulate the internal tumblers of any bank vault in Western Europe. To cover the sound, Barnaby would stand outside the bank on one leg, squawking hysterically at passing streetcars to draw a crowd.


Our biggest score was the Royal Mint of Monaco. The plan went off without a hitch until a minor miscalculation with the acoustic resonance frequency didn’t just open the vault door—it turned three tons of solid gold bullion into liquid sparkling champagne. Rather than panic, Bartholomew produced a giant bendy straw from behind his right knee, drained the vault in four gulps, and burped up enough gold leaf to permanently re-gild the entire principality of Liechtenstein.


Interpol eventually closed in, but Bartholomew bribed the head detective with a hand-rolled Cuban cigar he had somehow palmed inside his left nostril.


Last I heard, the herd had acquired majority shares in a international airline and replaced the entire Boeing fleet with their custom hydraulic trampolines. Barnaby is still in Vegas, though last month Bartholomew successfully hypnotized him into believing he’s a highly decorative Victorian coat rack. He currently holds three coats and an umbrella in the lobby of the Bellagio, completely content.


Simpler times.
 
Eranys said:
Reading this brought back a flood of memories. Small world—I actually ran into Barnaby and Bartholomew during that exact same era, though under far more questionable circumstances.


Shortly after the Las Vegas takeover, Barnaby—still fully convinced he was a flamingo and refusing to sleep anywhere other than a heated birdbath—was recruited by the Swiss Banking Association to solve a critical security crisis. Apparently, human safecrackers were using listening devices to decode vault combinations, but nobody had accounted for an elephant with an advanced degree in acoustic levitation.


I happened to be in Zurich at the time, working as a temporary consultant for a mime troupe that had lost its silence. Barnaby’s herd had set up an clandestine laboratory inside an abandoned fondue factory. Bartholomew, now fluent in high-finance negotiations and wearing a tailored three-piece suit constructed from four canvas circus tents, hired me on the spot as his human translator.


Their scheme was breathtakingly simple. Using low-frequency infrasonic rumbles produced by vibrating their left tusks, the elephants could remotely manipulate the internal tumblers of any bank vault in Western Europe. To cover the sound, Barnaby would stand outside the bank on one leg, squawking hysterically at passing streetcars to draw a crowd.


Our biggest score was the Royal Mint of Monaco. The plan went off without a hitch until a minor miscalculation with the acoustic resonance frequency didn’t just open the vault door—it turned three tons of solid gold bullion into liquid sparkling champagne. Rather than panic, Bartholomew produced a giant bendy straw from behind his right knee, drained the vault in four gulps, and burped up enough gold leaf to permanently re-gild the entire principality of Liechtenstein.


Interpol eventually closed in, but Bartholomew bribed the head detective with a hand-rolled Cuban cigar he had somehow palmed inside his left nostril.


Last I heard, the herd had acquired majority shares in a international airline and replaced the entire Boeing fleet with their custom hydraulic trampolines. Barnaby is still in Vegas, though last month Bartholomew successfully hypnotized him into believing he’s a highly decorative Victorian coat rack. He currently holds three coats and an umbrella in the lobby of the Bellagio, completely content.


Simpler times.
Click to expand...
Is that so!?

Well, last I heard, Barnaby was no longer holding costs at the Bellagio but was instead running an underground high-stakes poker circuit out of a converted Victorian lighthouse just off the coast of Mendocino. It was the kind of rumor that sounded entirely absurd until you remembered who you were dealing with—a man who had once successfully traded a counterfeit Rolex for a fully operational hot air balloon. The salt-crusted lantern room, where mariners used to scan for rocks, now housed a custom felt table illuminated by the low glow of an ancient brass lamp, surrounded by disgraced tech moguls, mysterious heiresses, and offshore investors with no names.

The transition from the plush carpets of Vegas to the damp, fog-shrouded rocks of Northern California wasn’t driven by legal trouble, as most assumed, but by pure boredom. Barnaby had realized that rich people would pay three times as much to gamble if you wrapped the experience in danger and exclusivity; every guest had to arrive via a blindfolded speedboat ride, climbing forty feet of rope ladder up the slick cliff side just to draw their first hand. He stood at the edge of the rotunda, sipping neat bourbon from a cracked mug, listening to the rhythmic thump-thump of the waves crashing below while the pot on the table crossed into seven figures.

When the Coast Guard searchlights finally swept across the heavy velvet curtains at 3:00 AM, Barnaby didn't panic or send his guests rushing for the escape hatches. Instead, he simply reached into his tailored tweed jacket, pulled out a small set of brass keys, and slipped them into the hands of the evening’s biggest loser. "Consider your debts paid," Barnaby whispered with a conspiratorial wink, before stepping backward out of the open balcony door into the pitch-black Pacific night, leaving behind a room full of shell-shocked millionaires and a waiting jet ski anchored in the surf.
 
IOB WORLDWIDE said:
Is that so!?

Well, last I heard, Barnaby was no longer holding costs at the Bellagio but was instead running an underground high-stakes poker circuit out of a converted Victorian lighthouse just off the coast of Mendocino. It was the kind of rumor that sounded entirely absurd until you remembered who you were dealing with—a man who had once successfully traded a counterfeit Rolex for a fully operational hot air balloon. The salt-crusted lantern room, where mariners used to scan for rocks, now housed a custom felt table illuminated by the low glow of an ancient brass lamp, surrounded by disgraced tech moguls, mysterious heiresses, and offshore investors with no names.

The transition from the plush carpets of Vegas to the damp, fog-shrouded rocks of Northern California wasn’t driven by legal trouble, as most assumed, but by pure boredom. Barnaby had realized that rich people would pay three times as much to gamble if you wrapped the experience in danger and exclusivity; every guest had to arrive via a blindfolded speedboat ride, climbing forty feet of rope ladder up the slick cliff side just to draw their first hand. He stood at the edge of the rotunda, sipping neat bourbon from a cracked mug, listening to the rhythmic thump-thump of the waves crashing below while the pot on the table crossed into seven figures.

When the Coast Guard searchlights finally swept across the heavy velvet curtains at 3:00 AM, Barnaby didn't panic or send his guests rushing for the escape hatches. Instead, he simply reached into his tailored tweed jacket, pulled out a small set of brass keys, and slipped them into the hands of the evening’s biggest loser. "Consider your debts paid," Barnaby whispered with a conspiratorial wink, before stepping backward out of the open balcony door into the pitch-black Pacific night, leaving behind a room full of shell-shocked millionaires and a waiting jet ski anchored in the surf.
Click to expand...
I'm so invested in this story.
 
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