Blue sky. How blue the sky is, how open the stretch of firmament seems so inviting. The blade of a cloud slices through the breadth of blue ocean, as if tainting the magnificence of the great expanse, perhaps the interruption being the harbinger of the events that are about to take place. Funny, how I never noticed this before, at least not like this. It seems to me a nice enough place to live, plenty of space to run; she’ll like that. Among the clouds, I mean, in the free, open space that can never be settled by any of the flesh. My thoughts and fears confined to my own conscience, I glance at my dad in the black leather seat next to me. His hands are on the wheel, about eleven and seven, I would say, far from what my driver’s education teacher had bombarded over and over again until my hands automatically took their rightful positions on the circumference. He doesn’t glance over at me, but I can tell by the deep forehead wrinkle in his hardened face that he is trying to recall his own personal experience, searching for words to console his own heart as searching for a personal memory relating to what I am going through and give comforting advice on the solemn subject.
We pull into a parking lot at the Harrison Veterinary Clinic, both of us still silent. The familiar red MDX parked beside us confirms that my mom and sister have already arrived. No surprise, my dad is always late. We climb from the truck and see the girls descend from the crimson automobile. The look on my mother’s face is that of a woman wanting nothing but to console her broken child, but I feel in no state to accept such pity. I am not here for my mother. We move silently across the parking lot, the sound of passing cars and the soles of our sneakers oblivious to the silence. Up to the cement porch, I push aside the glass barrier to what seems to be none other than the gateway to pain and release. I have been to this office many times, but it always seemed a place of comfort, a place of healing. Normally we would drag Lucy by the leash through the door; it wasn’t her favorite place, though once inside she’d sit patiently next to me, her chin on my knee. We would go in, get a shot or two, a routine ordeal, and go home with the dog that would leap out of the car and take off across the yard, then sprint back to me as if I was just arriving home after a long trip, greeting me with a wagging tail and anxious paws. She was always thrilled to be back on our property, no damage done. This was the cycle for years, nothing similar to this cold hell I was in now. Today there would be no tugging on the other end of the green, frayed leash. A stout, white haired, hobbit-like woman sits in one of the chairs, a large golden retriever lying patiently at her tiny feet. The woman grasps the leash linked to this gentle oaf as if letting go will send the animal into a rabid frenzy, bent on destroying all humanity in the tiny office. The dog blinks his eyes twice, then closes them for a quick nap on the cold cement floor. My dad speaks briefly with the veterinary assistant at the front desk, then our foursome files slowly behind the desk, through a door, into a ten by ten foot room.
The room painted a lifeless pink with yet another continuation of the icy cement floor, my family stands compacted together and silent. Two pictures of some dogs unknown to me hang on the bare walls, standard photographs for a veterinary office, a seemingly cordial pair life-loving canines, but they do not demand my attention. A door across the room opens slowly, and the veterinary assistant announces Lucy’s entrance. The elderly Shetland Sheepdog stumbles through the doorway, into the room. She greets me first, tail wagging quickly from side to side, jaw agape, tongue hanging out the side be her cheek. This was always her high-spirited, life-loving attitude. I sit down on the uninviting cement and put my arms around the animal’s neck, giving her a big hug, my face buried in her musty smelling, matted, beautifully aged fur, its calico pattern still as attractive as the day I picked her out at the kennel eleven years earlier, fused though with some slight graying at the tips of her erect ears and the end of her tail. She is an old dog, the way she moves, stiff, in pain. Her spirit remains strong, trying to run and gambol as she did in her younger years as a more limber, athletic pup, but regretting it later when she can hardly move her arthritic joints. The chronic scab covering the upper part of her muzzle reveals the only visible sign of her inner ailment, evidence of the fight she wages against age. Her eyes. There are few things on this earth that really represent life and purity, at least that I have seen, more than these eyes. Not the watered edges or the crusted corners of age, but the eyes themselves. A rich, dark green edging encompasses dark pupils within the spheres, absorbing the surroundings and displaying depths of loyalty and understanding. Life and innocence can be summed up in these eyes, the windows to a story of an entire life of love and companionship.
The veterinarian walks in and, and with a forces a smiling hello. We talk about Lucy’s condition, and what would be the “best thing” for her. I am quiet and remain silent as she speaks to us. The gentle animal lies at my lap, face directed towards my own, as it has done for eleven years, demonstrating the tender courage and respect she has shown for years. Her paw is blood-stained from the puncture of the IV forced to penetrate her aged dermis, the only real source of nutrition that has been keeping her from emaciating the past week. My mom and sister, both sobbing, rise and exit the room and begin towards the red MDX. I do not cry, just sit and stroke the matted fur of my friend. She chose me as her owner that day when I was six years old, I remember. All the other Shelties pups, her siblings, in the kennel, jumped and ran and wrestled playfully all around me. Lucy, however, walked to me and lay at my feet, allowing me to pet her as if we had been best friends for years. I continue to pet her today, letting her know that I am hear, but try not to allow the innocent life know what is about to happen. The vet leaves briefly, and with a solemn face lets me know it is time for me to say my goodbyes. Goodbye? I cannot say goodbye to my friend. A single drop flows down my cheek, a single drop that breaks the resistance, and my emotional conscience spills into my physical. I cannot stop the flow and blink over and over to prevent the blurring of my vision. I must see. I put my hands on both sides of the dog’s face and place myself nose to nose and look into her eyes as she peers into mine. How nature can dispose such goodness is a prophecy I will never understand. I put my arms around her and squeeze her tight, her tail still wagging, but now at a slower pace. I smell the stale stink of an old dog, my fingers dig into her coat and connect with her warm skin, The veterinarian reenters the room, syringe in hand, apology on her face. She drops to her knees, and I help move the tranquil dog into a more comfortable position. Her eyes remain open, looking at me as I continue to stroke her hair from the side of her face down to her neck, my other hand placed firmly on her ribs. The veterinarian administers the first shot into her shoulder, easing the animal into deep sleep and eliminating any pain she might feel, the vet informs me. I am still crying now, not a mournful sob, but the drops remain streaming down my cheek. Lucy closes her eyes, her body lying motionless and peaceful in undisturbed rest. The vet tells my dad and I that Lucy is now unaware of our presence, and we are free to leave before the second, lethal shot. No. I am not leaving. Friendship entails duty, not only compassion and enjoyment. She deserves to have me right here, I owe her that much and more. I remain seated next to her, my hand still stroking the coat of my dog. The vet administers the second shot, and the slow rise and fall of her abdomen evens out until it at last peaks, then eases into declination. My friend is gone.
