Losing a Dog: Still Getting Over It

My hands sweat as my foot presses harder on the gas.

Almost there. Just hang on. I’m almost there.

I replay the phone call I had with my teary mother moments earlier in patches.

Jesse… vet… sick… down.

I pull onto the gravel road that crunches at my abrupt stop. A dusty path marks the trail I’ve just driven. When I open the door I’m met with portraits of happy animals hanging on the walls and brochures sitting in slots. A bell sounds at my entrance and the blonde woman behind the desk looks up. She knew I was coming and takes me to the backroom where my boy is laying on the floor.

I look at my dad and sister but we don’t say anything. Their eyes are red and my sister is sniffling and folds her arms across her chest. I drop to my knees and in an effort to make me feel better he wags his tail. I run my hands over his body and rub his ears. I know he feels my sadness and when I press my face to his he makes an attempt to lick my nose – always comforting me, even now.

I’m transported to years earlier. There’s a man in a church parking lot holding a Dalmatian puppy in his arms. It was one of the last stops before the man was to take the spotted boy to a shelter. I reached out for the puppy and the love was instant. He licked and grabbed at the earring dangling from my ear. This made me laugh, which only intensified the puppy’s mission to get that earring. I looked over at my dad. There was no point in fighting it and what was intended to be a quick hello turned into a trip to the grocery store for puppy chow and a collar.

“Will he feel anything?” I ask the vet, trying to keep my voice level as I come back into the moment. Tears begin to swell my eyes and fall on the floor next to Jesse’s face. His tail makes a thump at the sound of my voice in another attempt to lift my spirits.

The veterinarian assures me he will feel much better and will no longer feel the pain and discomfort he’s in now.

Years prior would suggest this dog invincible. He even ate rocks – more than once. But now here was the dog – the dog that often curled up in baskets with warm clothes left unattended from the dryer – in his last moments.

“Are you ready?” the vet asks. “You can say goodbye now and leave the room if you’d like.”

My dad and sister say their goodbyes and exit the room. I lean down and kiss my boy again.

“I’ll stay with him,” I say.

The vet assembles his things and tells me after the serum is injected it’ll only take a few moments.

My foot has gone asleep beneath me but I don’t move it. I lean down and whisper what good a dog he is and how much I love him. When his eyes close I know my boy is gone and I feel myself crumble into his neck, now wet with my tears.

When I muster the strength to stand I go quickly, leaving behind another trail of dust. My right and left hands take turns wiping the lingering tears from my eyes before I pull over and rest my head against the steering wheel.

I remember how my boy would take any opportunity to steal a plastic water bottle to crunch on if left near the edge of the dining room table or kitchen counter. I remember the boy who ran laps around the house in frenzy after receiving a bath. I remember the nights my brother allowed him to sleep with him in his room as long as he didn’t emit any toxic gases, which happened more often than not.

That memory makes me laugh and helps me catch the breath I didn’t know I was holding. I glance in the rearview mirror and sigh. I know I should go home now so I replace the sunglasses back over my eyes and put the car in drive.

I sigh.

“I’ll always love you.”

—-

It’s been almost four years, but I still miss you, my crazy boy.