I remember Bogey in the
laundry room. The cold hardwood floor his bed, no, his world; the dark his
constant companion. He couldn't hold his piss like he used to, and that wasn't
acceptable to Rob. I turned the light on as I stepped into the room. Either the
light or my scent drove him into a frenzy, and he paced around me. I knelt to
hold him, to calm him down. Cupping his face, I felt what little fur he had
left. His tongue frantically searched the air for a lick of moisture. (Only a
few sips of water a day--that ensures fewer messes to clean up for Rob.) How is
this moment real? Bogey was a family member for 12 years, both cherished and
loved by Rob and the others. But then Bogey grew old. He became an
inconvenience. (I think when time's limit starts to noticeably tick, it's
louder to those around you.) That dog suffered; Rob watched TV. That dog
searched for his pack; Rob knew exactly where he was. I urged Rob to send Bogey
away—out of his misery if nothing else. What sort of life is lived trapped in
this void? “He’s fine,” Rob said. I wouldn’t relent, though. I reminded Rob
every day. Every day. Every day until my persistence was more annoying than
that dog that couldn’t contain his bowels. Rob conceded.
The next day, I cradled
Bogey, his body tense as I gripped the skeletal ridges of his torso around my
arms. Rob would want to say goodbye; after all, he wouldn't come for the
farewell. I carried Bogey out to Rob. He looked at the dog with hollow eyes. In
this house, Bogey was dead a long time ago. I took him to the veterinarian
without Rob. Why am I doing this? He's not even my dog...
My eyes hurt. I couldn't stop the tears. I couldn't hold them in. One by one by one they pushed through--burning my skin--reminding me that Bogey was forever gone.
The hardwood floors...they're clean again.
