Dogged by Loyalty

So, in the end, after failing rapidly in the space of a Saturday afternoon, she lay down at the bottom of the stairs. She was unfazed and unexcited by a chunk of meat. Her gaze met an unknown country past the horizon. She was in a limbo of lethargy. I lay down beside her, caressing her. Her ribs rippled under my hand. Upstairs, my younger daughter's crying threatened to escalate into an unmanageable storm. 'Rosie seems cold,' I said. 'Why not make her feel better by putting this little green blanket of yours on her? Make her feel cozy.' And that's what we did, along with a little pillow, along with hypnotic petting, caressing. Somehow sleep descended on all of us, at times, here and there, fitfully. We were certain we would find a deceased dog Sunday morning. We did not. She rallied a bit. But of course it was just a stage. The vet had left his cellphone number in case things had turned bad. We called. He called back to say he would meet us at his office; he was about two hours away. As if to make it harder, Rosie had come upstairs and lay by my daughter's bed. I took a nap, waiting for a call back from the veterinarian. She bravely said her goodbyes (the unclear antecedent for the pronoun is okay; 'she' and 'her' are interchangeable as to whom they refer here). My daughter went to stay with neighbors. I put Rosie's leash on upstairs, feeling vaguely like a sombre hangman. She almost stumbled on the stairs, confirming her accelerating weakness. A deception here, as if going for a beloved walk. Into the car she went, fairly enthusiastically. We had to lift her onto the back seat. My wife sat with her. Rosie sat on my daughter's emerald blanket. Pretty eager, getting out of the car. Then, as if it all dawned on her, resistance. We picked her up. Our voices were soft. The doctor asked me to sign a form. I did. My wife tearfully said goodbye. I said I'd stay, at least for a while. My thought is this: she was loyal to me, to us; I shall be loyal to her. I shall not abandon her. He shaved her left paw. He said he'd give her an IV. As he's putting the needle in ever so imperceptibly, she does not even flinch. Through my curtain of tears, I hold her and tell her I love her and gently reassure her. I ask the doctor about an IV but then it dawns on me: this is the IV, of course. All the liquid in the chamber enters her. I ask the doctor if she is conscious as I look into her brown eyes. 'I think she's gone,' he says softly. His stethoscope and his eyes verify it. 'Sometimes their eyes close if a muscle contracts,' he says, when I point out her eyes were still gazing into that unknown geography. My voice and eyes are filled with tears but I compose myself so as not to collapse into an undignified heap. I am willing to wager that a veterinarian sees more grown men cry than a funeral director. Outside, the bright sunlight of Pentecost. In the car, my wife's hand. My bark of a sob.

And so, farewell to you who knew my rages and secrets, my exaltations and lamentations, on our evening and nighttime walks, through billowing snow (you delighted in burrowing in it) and scarlet sunsets, locusts and lunar light. Farewell, my loyal lovely, farewell.

'The water is wide
I can't cross o'er...

Build me a boat that will carry two...'