who to dog, who to ride, who to hold forever by your side

My dad called me with sad news. One of my uncle's dogs had to be put to sleep. Miranda had been with them for fifteen years, but in the end there was nothing the vet could do for her. "He took her to the vet seven times, trying this medication or that, steroids, therapy," my dad marveled, "it occurred to me that I've never taken an animal to the vet's." 

It's true. Even I never went to the doctor's. Growing up, my dad used to make the three of us swallow garlic cloves before bed, because it made you strong. If you were sick, you lay in bed drinking lemon water until you sweat out the sickness. My dad has had multiple heart attacks and refuses to take medication of any sort. "I want to live naturally," he says, including McDonalds and KFC in the garden of goodness while regarding Lipitor as a pungent weed that must be killed. For a while I shared his sentiment. It wasn't until college that I realized that I could take aspirin as a cure for pain. It was a titanic realization, a slippery slope. I still thank him.

I have an audio recording of my mom telling her favorite story, the one where she adopted a pit bull only to learn he had a bad case of Parvo. She took him to the vet who pronounced the dog would die if she didn't leave him overnight. My mom told him that if he would die, it would be at home, and either way she "wouldn't pay $250 to save anything." She found a medical supplies store and bought saline solution and a large needle and spent the night injecting the dog with the fluid. She was inexperienced at the task and gave the dog huge wobbly bubbles of water underneath his skin that would fall to his underbelly as he got up to vomit. Through the night, she cuddled and injected, and by morning the dog was all better. She ends the story on a happy note: it only cost her $35. 

"No, we don't take our pets to the vet's," my dad continued wistfully, "we take them to the clinic, which is different. And it's always such a lonely ride home."