The dog was gonna bite it, there was no doubt about it.
He was surly with gnarled years and snapped at the neighbor kids when they would try to pet him. He was blind, as far as we could tell. And then there was the stomach cancer and sores and god knows what else now.
My wife would lure him into the car with jerky treats every few weeks to take him to the vet. And each time she would return through the door, carrying his slumped body like it was a bag of hate.
She would set him down on the couch and stare at him with sunken eyes that, by then, were tired of crying. She would watch the TV and stare at that as if it were something different. And then stare back at the dog again. And then back to the TV.
She would get up and pour some food into the dog bowl for when he would wake up and then make dinner for the rest of us.
When our son would ask if the dog was going to get better, fidgeting with peas and a fork, my wife would say No. He’s not going to get any better. Eat your peas.
And our son would gulp and grimace and put the fork down gently.
After dinner, my wife and I would talk in the strained way that people who have watched their youth piss and shit all over the floor and now lays there bleeding breath like ulcers you can see. Our parents were both very much alive, as were pretty much everyone we knew. This was our first whimpering opportunity to occasion the last lingering frays of life, the thing you don’t want to speak with a six year old about. I would rather have “the talk” that comes many years later, using clinical words like penis, erection, ejaculate.
I had actually rehearsed my speech on the subject many times, shaving.
I knew what I would say, then. I would not know what to say, now, or later, or when the last fray was fraught. We would wait until we could not wait any longer.
And then we would wait just a little bit more.
***
My wife tells our son the dog has to go to sleep now, he’s so tired. She tells him that he is going to have such a wonderful dream, that he won’t want to wake up, and that she wouldn’t want to wake him up, the dream is going to be that good. She’s going to make an extra comfy bed for him, one far away where nobody will bother him or try to wake him up.
She tells him that he’ll be able to visit the dog when he’s dreaming, every night if he wants. He can run and play with him, scratch his belly like crazy, and feed him cupcakes if he wants.
She tells him the dog will be so happy to see him. And will lick his face right off.
By the time my wife tells our son that he shouldn’t be sad if he only sees the dog in his dreams, I will have returned back from the vet, sitting only slightly sober in the driveway, smelling a blanket in the backseat, the one that smells like tearless puppy shampoo, sharp and acrid, lifting my loneliness like it was my best feature.
