The Last Ride

You've observed the decline: diminished eyesight, worse hearing, occasional stumble. Then, in just a couple days' time, obvious decline turns to apparent demise as the back legs pretty much stop functioning so that even a stumble is out of the question. He can do little more than lie down, so you move his bed closer to the patio door where he can feel the night air. You help him to the water dish and support him so he can stand and take water in, then carry him outside and support him there so he can let that same water out. Sometimes you let him lie in the grass beneath a warm sun before bringing him back inside and holding food to his mouth.

Too soon, though, he doesn't eat, doesn't even lift his head, doesn't recognize anything but the loudest of voices. There are a few moans, you think, but no signs of pain, and you are thankful for that. Everyone decides on what to do, and you volunteer to call the animal hospital and then, surprisingly, find your voice barely confident as you ask for advice about how to handle things. The woman is helpful, even says that you can give her a credit card number over the phone so you can leave the hospital quickly. That makes you think back to when you, your sister, and your father were at the funeral home arranging for what to do with your mother, and the funeral director had your father sign a paper acknowledging that, before anything else, his fees must be settled.

Your wife carries his bed to your car, and you carry him. You and your wife compare notes, and you realize you both awoke the previous night and thought you heard him in your room, that he'd somehow gotten better and could walk again. Then, you lay him down as gently as you can and shut the door, hopeful that he will be okay in the August heatwave. The drive is short, and somewhere along the way you think of Old Yeller and The Call of the Wild and Travels with Charley; you even think of Marley and Me, though it's a bit too sappy for your taste. And you remember winter nights when you had a paper route, how after school or after football practice you would take your dog and and head into the dark and the cold to deliver papers or collect money from your customers. You'd stop in the field between your house and your route, and you'd lie in the snow and stare up at the stars or let the snow fall against your face, your dog's front paws on your chest as she, too, enjoyed the night. It has been a long time since you've thought of that.

At one point during the ride you hear him moan, so you turn the air conditioner higher to, you think, cool the car further, though there's a part of you that hopes the increased noise will cover the sound of any moaning. At the animal hospital, you park your car and open the rear hatch. He hasn't moved; he shows no recognition of anything, of you. He has, though, vomited, and you clean his face and snout.  Later you will laugh when your wife reminds you that he vomited in the car on the day he was brought home, too.

Two technicians come out to greet you, bringing with them a small stretcher not unlike the kind you were trained to use in the navy. You lift him onto the stretcher, and the technicians strap him in and take him inside. Everything afterward is quick, and you head to the lobby to write a check because you did not opt to provide a credit card number over the phone. Then, you are back in the sunshine and on your way to the gym where exercise helps you work your way back into the day.