LAST DAY: August 29, 2016 (Morning)

When I drag myself out of bed and make my way to the living room, the first thing I see is my wife sitting on the floor with Flash in her arms.  She’ll have to be at work in an hour, but some things are more important.  “He got out of his bed last night at four in the morning and moved over to your side of the bed,” she explained.  “And after that, I didn’t sleep.”

Flash moving around at night is a fairly recent development, a manifestation of his blindness and dementia, the vet believes.  In his uncertainty about where he is and how long it is until morning, he’ll lay on my side of the bed because I am usually the first one up.  I’ve learned to put that first foot on the floor gingerly, as the first thing I feel some mornings is a furry ribcage beneath me.

He eats, he goes outside, he takes a nap.  Kath goes to work.  And then, Nap Part Deux, the nap of naps, where it gets good and quiet.  He doesn’t stir when I begin to assemble my chores for the day, a quick trip to the grocery store, the bank and the library.  Pretty much a standard list for one of my writing Fridays.  When I return an hour later, he doesn’t appeared to have moved, but he still greets me with a wagging tail that strikes the living room area rug with a muted thump.  He slowly gets to his feet and makes it about five steps before he throws up his breakfast.  I usher him outside and clean up the mess before I join him on the deck.

In a few hours, I will give my consent to a person that will administer a medication that stops Flash’s heart, and I don’t know how I will be.  Still, I worry more about the children.  Will there be a good friend, or even a big-hearted stranger, that will offer them solace at a low point in their young lives?  I have to hope that there is.  I will have Kathy, Kathy will have me.  When we are parents, we want to shield our children from this kind of hurt and there is no chance of doing that today.  I feel like a big part of my stoicism is in response to their grief, in that I feel I have to be strong for them.  When it is all revealed as a façade this afternoon, will I be able to get through the burial without a breakdown?  I am hoping I can. 

So I go about the task of making a dinner for after, and a bacon cheeseburger for before.  The vet says I can feed him up to the very last minute.  I would be okay with that if the last minute wasn’t coming so fast.