In the end, it was over very quickly. It actually took more time to cook the
cheeseburger than it did to administer the two shots that stopped his
breathing.
Kathy got home at four p.m., understandably a bit
shaken. She changed out of her work
clothes and joined Flash and I on the deck, where we have enjoyed so many good
times these last three years. It’s crazy
to see the timing of his passing. I had
written a blog three years ago when he began losing his sight, forwarding the
theory that Flash wanted to hang on until the children got out of the house, to
help ME get through the transition. Dan
moved out two weeks ago. Flash went into
serious decline almost immediately.
Still, when the veterinarian and her tech arrived promptly
at 4:30, it felt too soon. Rationally, I
knew they were right on time. For
Flash’s sake, perhaps a little overdue.
For me, emotionally, it was the closing of a chapter. Children no longer run through the sprinkler,
turning the grass near the porch into a mudhole. When Flash came to us, three of my
grandparents were still alive. They are
all gone now. My hair was long and just
beginning to thin in the back. It is completely
white and sparse today.
They took the money and had me sign a paper right after they
met the dog. While I read over the
contract, they curried his favor with bits of cooked chicken from a Ziploc
bag. I’m certain he smelled the other
dogs on their clothing…did he smell death, too? It was eerily quiet in the backyard. No birds chirped, no squirrels chattered. It remained that way into the darkness.
If he did sense his demise, he was okay with it. He was placid and compliant when we coaxed
him onto a pillow covered with a bed sheet.
The sheet was my idea. Twice
before, bringing the body home after the euthanasia, I had carried the body
from the car to the garden. Twice
before, I had seen the dog’s tongue loll from their lifeless mouth. I didn’t ever want to see it again. I wish I could forget it even now.
The process moves along at a pace. It isn’t haste, but it is efficiency. They explain the first step and perform their
duty. They assure you that they are in
no hurry, but it seems like a practiced approach, a rhythm most of us wouldn’t
be able to nail on a first (or even a third) try. The dog is likely suffering, which is why
they’ve been hired. The humans are
suffering, because they see a member of the tribe in pain. You’ve signed the papers and they’ve
explained what they are going to do.
Your only job as the pet owner is to keep the patient calm. When the sedative from the first syringe hit,
Flash didn’t need a lot of help staying calm.
Shit, I hope he was as high as a kite.
His head was in Kathy’s lap. I
stroked his back and his flanks, running my hand over his chest, feeling his
heart beating. Slower, but still
beating.
When they prime that second syringe, you have a minute or so
left. If you can keep your sockets dry
at that moment, then either you or your dog is a dick.
The needle gingerly enters the vein. The plunger is pulled back and a freshet of
blood appears in the syringe. Then the
tech’s thumb pushes down. If you were to
shout at that moment, “No, wait!” you would have waited too long. We did not ask for a reprieve. Flash’s face is serene, as if he had just
arrived home from that long-ago trip to the lake and found his favorite napping
place. I feel no heartbeat. The vet places her stethoscope several places
around his trunk and hears nothing. She
shakes her head, ‘No.’
Truthfully, I don’t even remember them leaving. That’s why you take care of the business part
first. After we covered Flash’s body
with the sheet, I cry into the right side of Kathy’s neck for a moment. The right side of my neck is wet with her
tears.
As we carried his body to the garden, I remember a
conversation we had when we moved the hosta.
After Brooklyn had passed, I placed a hood ornament from a Cadillac on
top of the stone marking his grave. Kath
asked me, nearly twenty years later, “If Brooklyn was the Cadillac of dogs,
what is Flash?” I told her Flash was a
mini-van. My wife was somewhat offended
by my comment, but I stand beside it.
There are police dogs, service dogs, show dogs, hunting dogs, rescue
dogs, there are dogs for many applications.
Flash was a family dog. He
existed to be a member of a family. That
was his job. It’s not flashy, like a
Cadillac. It’s sturdy and long lasting
and utilitarian, like a mini-van.
When the old family vehicle goes to the junkyard, you don’t
remember much about the trim and the stereo or the fold-back seats. You remember the places you went with it and
how you felt at that moment. Flash
brought us to here. I am a very grateful
man.
EPILOGUE: August 30, 2016
The story isn’t over, of course. The reminders will keep coming. We will find dog hair in long-unused rooms,
like pine needles six months after Christmas.
We may be arrested for an instant, or perhaps be in tears for longer
than that. But for Lucy and Dan and
Kathy and me, Flash will always live in our memories, a vibrant pooch that
wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer. He was
going to keep at it until you loved him back.
When I think back to the days when I wished he lived elsewhere, it
shames me. But I know he didn’t hold it
against me. After all, he won,
right? I did love him, I do miss him,
and when I came in this afternoon after work I cried when there was nobody to
greet me.
It was simply his time.
Flash knew it. We all knew
it.
R.I.P. FLASH
August, 2001-August 2016
No comments:
Post a Comment