My dog is dying.
That's slightly inaccurate. My dog is going to die, tomorrow apparently. She's sixteen years old now, too old to see, eat solid food, or correctly use the bathroom. She does the old dog thing where she stares into space at nothing really, dead black eyes barely registering anything. Her wiry fur is a clean white, and her unusually small body is wracked with signs of age. If I listen carefully, I can hear her nails clacking on the kitchen floor as she pads across the floor to lay down with her best friend, our other dog.That's 100% a lie. I can only hear Jeff Buckley's mournful rendition of "Hallelujah" (not the version from "Shrek" but close enough). I'm listening it on repeat, hoping that I can conjure up some tears.
The truth is, I'm not very close with my dog. Sure, she's a great animal, but my relationship with her isn't one that I would say most dog owners have with their beloved pets. Minnie isn't the best dog to ever have lived. She has never been my constant companion, she's not the most beautiful dog in the world. At the best of times, we seem to live in a perfect state of mutual tolerance- not too close and not too far.
That's not to say that she hasn't been as much a good dog as she could. I remember the first night we took her home. Mom and Dad put a baby cage in the computer room and let me and my sister play with the new puppy late into the night while my baby brother watched. I'll always remember the time when she tumbled out the bed of the truck as we were driving down Cleveland Ave, walking off the fall as if the only injury she sustained was to her pride. Minnie has murdered countless baby bunnies, a few family rodents, and at least, one shoe or two. She has been my comfort in times of sorrow and my light in times of joy.
I suppose I'm not mourning the imminent loss of my dog so much as the loss of my childhood. I've owned this dog since before I could claim we aren't close. A part of me is going to the vet, too.
An unrelated text message comes in from my best friend- "Get with reality, man." Which reality, the one where my dog is going to die? The reality where I accept the fact that I have ultimately failed as a companion, not striving to be as close to another living thing before it unceremoniously passes from this world to the next? Or perhaps she means the reality that life, no matter the form or the function, is a precious, fragile gift to be wondered at and appreciated? Maybe it's my right as a griever to be given unexpected advice, but right now, I don't want to be part of any reality. I just want- no, NEED- to feel.
Mr. God, stop the world. I want to get off.
I'm still not crying, and there's a small part that wishes that I could. Jeff Buckley is doing nothing for me. Maybe I'll cry tomorrow- hot salty tears that splash down my cheeks and pool in the deep recesses of a heart that now knows what it is to lose what was never appreciated.
