depressing shit

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 21^st 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…