DAY ONE, August 18, 2016

You know from the moment you rub that pup’s downy ears that someday you’re going to have to bury that dog.  At least you do if you’ve done it before.  This time will be my third.  My name is Marc, and I am a serial dog owner.

Today I talked to a mobile veterinarian, a charming woman, about coming over to my house to kill my dog.  Now, maybe the way I phrased that statement prejudiced you against her, but, remember, I ASKED her to do it.  We have agreed on a date and time.  I effectively signed the death warrant.  Immediately thereafter, I had to notify the next of kin, or, as they are more popularly known, my wife and children.

As I said, I am a serial dog owner.  I have owned three dogs in my adult life, and this will be the third time my dog has gone to the chair.  I hear people talking about their dogs slinking off into the woods to die.  Why couldn’t I have a slinker? Why do I have to get the ones that say, “No thanks, I’ll live here in pain.”

As the clock ticked towards Labor Day, the veterinary world was bombarded with requests for physicals, so folks headed out on vacation could kennel their dogs.  Kathy (my wife) and I dawdled over a decision we’d already made.  Knowing Flash was blind from cataracts, losing his hearing and suffering from dementia at Christmastime, he had received a reprieve for one last summer.  But as the leaves began to turn, Flash began to fall down.  It was no longer feasible to put him in a kennel or saddle relatives with his delicate care.  We were going to be gone overnight several times in September, so I made the call.  I told the vet his history.  I cried and sometimes free-associated.  She agreed to try and help us, schedule permitting.

It didn’t permit.  But she didn’t forget our conversation, moving her schedule around to accommodate us around a vacation she’d long ago arranged.  I hope she is as cool as I think she is.  How many times in a day, or a year, or a lifetime, can you listen to an old man cry about his dying dog?  Maybe I’ll ask her.

Later, I’m talking to Kathy about the date of departure.  She says, “Y’know, that probably means you’re going to have to cut his toenails again.”  It didn’t register immediately, but when it landed, it had maximum impact.  Sweet Onion Chutney, soon, I will be cutting a dead man’s toenails.

Tonight, while my wife went out with the girls for Sangria, I watched television laying on the floor with the dog.  It was a sincere effort on both our parts, but, overall, he was too hairy for me and for him, I guess I wasn’t hairy enough.