My Life

Hot

It was hot—that summer the heat hit a new record, the summer of your death. I saw the bed sores on your body; there wasn’t much that I could do to heal them. The vet advised me to put sugar on the bed sores, but the sugar didn’t help much. I stood near you, waiting, hoping that you would finally get up and walk, be your normal German shepherd self again. I kept hoping for a miracle that never came. I loved you so much, my little big guy. I loved you and I have never ceased to remember you. You liked those long sticks that the vet used to give you when you were healthy. You would drag me all the way to his office so he could give you one or two or even three. You were persistent and if they didn’t open the door right away, you’d stand next to it until someone did. You were my companion. You were my life. The ones love are always my life.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Remember

Remember

Everything—I remember everything. I remember the anguish. I remember your discomfort and my inability to lessen it. You were in pain and there was nothing I could do. That night seemed endless. I didn’t want it to end. I didn’t want you to go. How could I keep you when death wanted to grab you? I was losing my friend; I was losing the years we had spent together—the time we had been apart. I couldn’t sleep; you couldn’t either. You sat on your blanket. The bed sores had not gone away. They were big and red. You were my troubled one, but I didn’t care. I loved you. I loved the good times and the bad times too. They came to take you early the next morning. They put you in the back of a van. I followed in a taxi. The driver kept talking. His voice was loud and I wished he would stop. I wanted to say: Don’t you understand? He’s dying and I will miss him forever. He’s more than my best friend. I could say nothing. We reached the doctor’s office. One injection wasn’t enough. Two—you needed two. I cried when I touched your body. Your physical life was over.

 

Your Strawberries

Strawberries

I remember everything about that morning—the morning of your death. You loved strawberries but I couldn’t give you any. You used to look up at me when I ate strawberries and you would have stolen one or two if I had let you. I remember the man taking you up and putting you on his shoulder. They had just given you something, a sedative, so you wouldn’t feel anything. I remember the man placing you beside him in the dog pound van. I followed you in a taxi because I was not allowed in the van with you and the man. The taxi driver was a rough and tumble kind of guy, not the person I could confide in. He would not have understood how unhappy I was and that losing you was the last thing I wanted. I saw you on the floor of the dog pound when they gave you first one, then 2 injections to make you die. I did not want you to die, but you were so ill! You would not have lasted much longer. You would have been an unhappy German shepherd with no working legs. Our walks would have been a thing of the past. I have never forgotten you. I can never forget you. I know you have all the strawberries you want up in Dog Heaven.

 

Last

Last

He spent his last days in a small apt. His skin had developed bed sores. He could barely move. He had difficulty lifting his head. The weather was extreme that year, with high temperatures breaking records. Someone had to go to his small space by the wooden wall and ask him if he needed anything. His eyes would look at the person. He could not even bark. That last evening he got the meal he loved most—steak, potatoes and his favorite sweet stick. He slept until they came for him. A large man wrapped him up in a huge towel and carried down to where the truck to the vet’s office was. His owner was with him until the end.

 

 

January 9th

It was hot, so hot that everything seemed to be burning. You were dying. I knew you were dying. You had moved from the living room to the kitchen to get water from your water bowl once; then you gave it up. You went back to sit on the mattress on the floor. Your legs had bedsores. You had been used to walking half an hour 3 times a day at least. Now you didn’t care. Going out and sniffing things meant nothing to you. You were like a king in exile, a king who was tired and spent, but still strong. You didn’t feel like bothering with the basic things of life anymore. It was all behind you.

Shrine

Shrine

My precious one: no shrine can do you justice. Nothing I can feel, no matter how deep, can describe all that you meant and mean to me. Those other ones, the ones I often see on the street, are like you, but they are not you. Your essence, your soul—both belong to you and you only. Seeing the others makes me feel less lonely for you. I will miss you always; petting them will not bring you back, but my heart is less sad when I do so.

 

 

 

 

The Other House

They stood on the sidewalk. She held on tight to him, but the leash was long and she had to roll it up in her hands. “It’s fine, baby. it’s fine.” Her voice sounded normal; her body was rigid. She hoped he wouldn’t notice her anxiety. He looked at the people going past them, sniffing their essence as if he longed to see a special someone. “Let’s start walking. You tell me where.” He pulled on the leash so hard that she almost lost her balance. At the corner, he turned left. ” I know where you want to go.” Five minutes later they stood before a two-story house. It was all white, except for the dark grey garage door. He went to the door and sniffed. Their small car was at the curb. His body went down to the tires–one, two, three and four tires. He couldn’t help himself; he wanted more and more. Last he lead her to the garage door. He looked at her. “It’s ok. I understand. Smell all you want.” He stayed by the door for several minutes. “It’s almost as if you were a human being. They kicked you out and you still miss them.”

A Dog, Just a Dog

 

I miss my dog. He’s dead; he’s been dead for the past 9 years. I miss him as if he had gone yesterday. I don’t know how I have stood all these years without him. I remember our walks. The last months of his life were difficult and our walks reflected that. He couldn’t walk the way he had when he was well. They were jerky, often nervous walks. I wanted to make them less stressful for him, but I couldn’t. I would bend down and pet him, as if to reassure him that things would get better. He’d look up at me knowing they wouldn’t. Our small home was the only safe place for us. The streets had dangers and unfeeling people.

Best

Best

I did it. I did my best. Another anniversary of your parting came and I pretended it wasn’t true. I made myself believe that it wasn’t so. You are still alive, I said to myself. You are not dead. The pain in my heart isn’t real. I am not feeling it. This afternoon I will take you for a walk, one of our longer ones and then I’ll feed you. You’ll stay by my chair when I am at the computer. You’ll be patient and wait until I’m done. Later tonight we’ll go out again and once back in our small apt. we’ll be the best companions to each other. We’re lifelong friends.

How?

How?

How can I forget you? You were my life. I would have done anything for you, just like you would have done anything for me. You did trick me and that was not nice. I thought you’d live forever. That wasn’t so. When you left me almost 9 years ago, the world might as well have ended. But something about you, memories of you, kept me going. I need no reminders to be aware of what you and I meant to each other. The reminders appear in my life very often. I welcome them because I can’t welcome you back to Earth. To me, you are eternal.