Let's Not Do This Now

Laying here, shrouded in a too-big blanket, my couch smells like him. A bit like pretzels mixed with fresh grass from when we walked to the river yesterday evening. If I had known this day would come, I wouldn't have signed up for a relationship. An ignorant version of myself put too much faith in Time, hoping It would extend just for us.

Like African violets shedding purple-spotted pink petals, my eyes are wet with never-ending tears. They fall for time we will never have. Trips to the beach, mountainsides, and his favorites places that will never happen again.

I am quite aware the majority of us will feel loss at some point in our fleeting lives. It is inevitable.

"He's fine, though. You're sad about something that hasn't happened yet."

My partner's soothing voice grates on frayed nerves.

He has not passed, but he won't live forever. Every visit to the vet is a gamble. Is this the year old age finally wins the battle? Is this the year when we learn he has an incurable disease common in his breed? Is this the year I lose my best friend because we cannot afford thousands upon thousands in vet bills?

Call it anxiety, or overthinking, or unnecessary drama. I call it pre-mature grief that stems from realism.

I watch him slow down more and more, legs stiff from the burden of living a wonderful life. Sweet is the look in his eyes as I give him a gentle leg massage before work, knowing it won't reverse age but hoping my love makes him happy.

Minutes later, I wave good-bye a last time as I shut the front door, taught that life must go on despite pain and suffering. That my job, the one that pays for his vet bills, is more important than who and what they pay for.

I want to turn the car around, lay on the floor and snuggle in his thick fluff. He is the best dog I could ever ask for, and in a few short years, he will be gone.

The day lags slower than an seventies computer. Hours drag by into somehow slower minutes, limping along at a pace a snail could beat in a footrace.

I glance at the clock each hour, counting to eight before finally shutting down my office.

One car ride home and I'm back where I started this morning, sad and afraid to load up the car and meet with the vet.

After hopping off the couch, he struts over, tail wagging in joy, and a toothy smile on a graying face. I hold out my hand and he places his snout on top, blinking happily.

"Time to get your check-up, baby bear," I whisper, forcing my voice to stay steady. My husband grabs the keys from my pocket and heads out to put up the seat covers.

I click on his collar, call a good-bye to the cat and open the back door to let him hop in the car. What a mistake.

He looks up at me, ears down and tail slowly falling.

"Oh, sorry, bud. Let me help."

I wrap my arms around his back legs, his signal to jump. After lifting him up and helping him settle into the back seat, I hop into my own and hit the gas. The faster we get to the appointment, the faster it will be over.

A short car ride later, the white and green sign peeks out from behind a group of little trees.

Turning into the parking lot, his little floppy ears perk up.

"You excited to see everyone, my honey bear?"

He turns to me, eyes sparkling and tongue lolling out of his mouth. Of course he is excited- this is the Palace of Treats and Cuddles. Everyone loves him, pets him, and baby-talks him to the exam room.

The place is quiet for a Friday afternoon.

As I push open the door, the greeting bell jingles as the receptionist smiles up at me from her desk.

"Who do we have here?" she asks cheerfully.

"Sampson. For three-thirty."

"Wonderful. The doctor will be out--"

The door next to her opens suddenly and a smiling technician walks out to greet us.

"I can take them now. Welcome back, Sampson and parents."

I make polite small talk as the tech weighs him. A healthy weight and a bright smile, she says.

We follow her to a clean examination room. The usual questions are asked and we provide information. My mind listens for key words, putting together a puzzle while distracted by a looming storm cloud.

"Did you hear me, ma'am?"

I look up from the furry face with whiskey-colored eyes staring lovingly into my eyes only to be met by a concerned frown.

"He's dying."

Stab. Stab. STAB. STAB.

I can't move. I can't scream. All I can do is stare at the tech with wide eyes as her words stab me over and over again.

"You don't have a lot of time. You need to consider his quality of life. You have to put him down today. Don't be selfish. Get over it and move on."

"W-what?" I croak, voice barely squeezing past the lump in my throat.

"He's thriving. You and your husband take good care of him. Everything looks good for his age, and we'll monitor those lumps as he ages. For now, keep doing what you're doing."

I nod, unable to form words through brain fog thick enough to hide in. There I hide while my husband wraps up the conversation and pays the bill.

Sampson rubs against my leg, head tilted back, asking for a scratch on his back. He did great, as always. Gave them no trouble even though he doesn't like them looking in his mouth and ears. Let them give him a shot without any fuss.

As always, it is the innocent ones, the perfect ones, that have to leave this world much too early. A soul pure enough to rival miracles.

Although I am not saying good-bye to him today, or anytime soon, I can't help but fear the day I must say those words.

It will be difficult, distressing, and downright depressing. A piece of my soul will wither away like paper in a bonfire. I will feel as though someone ripped out my heart and stuffed something fake in its place.

But I will also move on. I have to. The grief will not bring him back, and our cat will need all our attention, for she will lose her anchor.

Oh, and now I am crying.