I look down at the brown,
squishy mess that is slowly disappearing in the way-too tall grass in our
backyard. It’s my dead dog’s last poop.
“I don’t do depression very
well,” I think to myself. It’s not an epiphany, it’s a fact. I don’t do it very
well.
On Friday, I had the day off. No
idea why my boss, who doesn’t boss very well, gave me the rarest of rare days
off for a small-town sports reporter at a small-town rag. But he did. He makes
the schedule up on Friday nights. For the next week. Many times at 1 a.m. on a
Saturday morning I’d find out I was working Saturday afternoon. I never will
understand why he thinks this is cool. People, even lowly sports reporters at
less-than-15,000 circulation newspapers in the 21st century need
some bit of normalcy in their lives. But I resigned myself to the fact that as
long as I have this job, I won’t be getting that.
But anyway, I was off Friday, a
rarity. I was looking forward to a day spent with my fiancée. Maybe we could
take in a movie, got out to get a rare dinner together. Maybe even have a beer
or two.
It sounded lovely. But I should
have known better. Life, for us, hasn’t been that good.
A few days earlier, we took our
dogs – Francine the 15-year-old mutt and Murray the 7-year-old mutt – to the
beach. I hadn’t been back to the beach since moving out of my house two blocks
from the ocean on Aug. 31, 2012. So, on July 8, 2013 we set out in her SUV to
the ocean.
On the way, we drove through
Jacksonville. A town I’d promised myself I’d never step foot in again. So much
for declarations from my mouth. I’ve found my promises to myself are the ones
that are never fulfilled. Maybe going
there is why what happened happened. Being tested. Or told. Or I’m just looking
for a reason why.
We get to the beach and take the
dogs to the ocean. They frolic. They get wet. Francine, who loves the beach
more than I do, I think, smiles as much as a dog can smile. A wave gets her
pretty good, she looks at me and smiles again.
Soon, she’s tired. At 15, she’s
got lots of health issues. We’re poor. So we’ve done the best that we could.
But I know she’s been in pain for a while. The pills she takes help, but not
enough.
Late-night panting and needing
to pee an awful lot had become a pain. But, you do it because of love. You get
up at 4 a.m. to get her some water. Or to let her pee. Or just wander around
the house.
Looking back, I wish I’d done
more.
We go get some food at a local
greasy spoon. Alisa and I talk about moving back to the beach.
“Well, back for you,” she
laughs.
I like the idea. I don’t want to
be unhappy so much. Would I be happier working a cash register and being looked
at disdainfully by tourists? I don’t know. And that’s the question. I really
don’t know. I think back to being 22. Working at Roses Department store. I felt
stupid for being there, college degree in hand, making $4.35 an hour, but
honestly, the job provided less angst and a little bit more fun than most I’ve
had in my “career” since.
Yeah, I’ve loved being a writer.
Putting words on the page is great. It also drains.
We drive back, getting out in
New Bern to let the dogs crap.
At home, we sigh a little. Back to
the grind, it feels like.
I work for a few days, and on
Thursday take the two doggies for a walk.
Little did I know, it would be
the last one I’d ever take the two of them on.
All the old tricks by Francine.
She tries to pull me towards the lake. Giving me her sad eyes. She always loved
going that way. I look at her and said “Next time, buddy!” She stares at me and
pulls one more time. I pull back and she obeys. We go home.
I go to work. Alisa’s already
been gone for a few hours.
I come home that night. Murray
barks like usual, Francine comes and greets me. She rubs her nose against my
hand, poking and prodding to try and get some pets.
I get some food. Giving them
both a few morsels. The last thing I give Francine is a piece of Chex Mix. She
pants after I don’t give her anymore and goes into the hallway in front of our
bedroom. She always disappears like that. Waiting for me to stop watching Law
& Order on Netflix and going to bed.
About 3 a.m., I go there. I pet
her and say goodnight. Murray has already scampered under the bed, his place to
sleep.
Around 8 in the morning, Alisa
wakes me up.
“Something’s wrong with
Francine,” she says.
I woozily get up.
“Huh?”
“She just slumped down in the
hallway after going to the bathroom,” she said.
I call Francine from the bed.
She looks at me, but doesn’t budge.
I get up, pet her and say “Come
here girl!”
She moves a little, but doesn’t
get up.
I go over to her completely,
give her butt a little boost and she tries to walk into the bedroom. She almost
falls over.
“Something is wrong!” I say.
We debate about taking her to
the vet. I think we both are too scared to admit what is going on.
Finally, Alisa says it “I don’t
want her last moments to be in the vet’s office.”
“We can call the in-home lady,”
I say. “But she might not be able to go.”
We decide to go to the vet. I
pick Francine up. She’s stiff as a board. She is never like that.
I place her in the back of my
car. We have to drive my car because Alisa doesn’t have any gas.
Once at the vet, it takes
forever for them to see us.
Francine sits on the table like
a trooper. Staring at us. Her breathing is labored. I pet her as much as I can.
After an initial assessment, the
doctor, who is very nervous, doesn’t know what to do.
She takes some blood. It’s very
red. And there isn’t much of it.
It’s decided to give her an
X-ray. They take her away.
A few minutes later, they call
us back. Francine’s breathing is labored even more.
“She’s got blood in her stomach,”
the vet says. “We don’t know why. We can operate.”
“No,” we both agreed.
By now, Francine is barely
there. Her tongue is sticking out of her mouth and her breaths come only every
so often.
We say goodbye.
I watch the breaths slow even
more. Then they stop.
Francine is the closest I’ve
ever gotten to a dog. I really loved her.
It’s been a few days now. I’m
still thinking about her. I know it’ll pass. I don’t get over things very well,
though, so it’ll be awhile.
I cussed at God for it. Knowing
how pointless the whole exercise is.
I bought a lottery ticket with
the numbers from her dog collar on it. In the cruelness that is life, the first
two numbers came up immediately. Then nothing.
Of course.
I haven’t put the seats back up
in my little Hyundai yet. I don’t know when I will. Her fur, which she always
shed tons of, is still there.
But, like I said to Alisa
yesterday when she vacuumed the floor and threw away a big container full of
mostly her hair “Pretty soon, that won’t be there anymore.”
We cried. Was it stupid to say?
Maybe. But I’ve found out from a lot of suffering over the years, that keeping
it inside is worse.
Last night I came home from work
for the first time since she died. She always greeted me.
This time, it was just Murray.
He poked his head around a corner. His confidence is shot since she isn’t backing
him up anymore.
I wonder what he thinks. He’s an
attention whore, so a little part of me thinks he’ll be fine without her
around. Especially with us pampering him the last few days.
But that’ll pass too.
Everything does. Just like in a
few days, the rain and weather and flies and whatever will make her last poo
disappear. But I’ll keep looking at that spot. Probably for as long as we live
here. It’s just the way it is…
I miss you Francine. Love you…
