Flying in the Wind (Part 2) By Ellen Schmalholz The signs were there for me to see: little intake of food and water, peeing all over the house, hind legs collapsing under her, and periodic confusion--a dazed look like she wasn t sure where she was or where she intended to be going. My problem was that my puppy, Charcoal, my fourteen and a half year old basset hound, wasn t consistent and when she seemed to rally I wanted to believe we had more time. I chose blind faith over the obvious. I needed a professional opinion. Our appointment was at five o clock. I stayed home from work because she had thrown up in the middle of the night. If this was going to be her last day, I didn t want either of us to suffer alone. She slept most of the day--even when I wrapped my arms around her, sobbed against her warm body and my salty tears slid off the top of her head and down her long silken ears. I watched the clock all day. High noon. 3 p.m. 4:30 p.m. I tried feeding her before we had to leave. I could then tell Dr. Wallen that she had eaten. I sat down on the floor and dipped my fingers into warm ground turkey, the juice usually enticing her to at least
2 lick my fingers, but she just sniffed and walked away. I didn t think to pay attention to her toenails clicking on the Pergo flooring, a sound that always made me laugh. I watched her slowly walk to her water bowl and lap up the liquid. I was glad I had rinsed out the bowl and filled it with fresh water an hour earlier. I checked my watch. It was time. Come on, Charc, I said. Trust me one last time? I rattled her leash and collar and she stuck out her head to allow me to put it on. We walked out the door as though it were any other day. How strange it is to move calmly through time and space when the consequences are so profound. In the car, with Charcoal sitting next to me, I thought about driving to the hospital when I was in labor and ready to deliver. I thought about being on a gurney twenty-five years later being prepped for a colonoscopy. I pictured a dead man walking, surrounded by an entourage of guards and warden types who were making sure he got where he was going. Walking the plank, waiting for the guillotine, all that time beforehand, an insult to injury. And then serendipitous things happened. After I parked the car at the vet s office and coaxed Charcoal out of the car, I saw my friend Becky getting out of her car. She needed to pick up some
3 medicine for her dog. She looked at me and understood my sadness instantly. She sat with me on the hard wooden bench in the waiting room. Charcoal walked around the room on her big white paws, head bent sniffing the array of animal smells that had passed through the room that day. She seems fine, I said. Maybe she is. Then a young man came in. Hey, a basset. How old is she? I suddenly couldn t talk. The lump in my throat choked me. My hand flapped in front of my face--some ridiculous thing I do hoping the maneuver will stem my tears. Becky put her arm around my shoulder. I collapsed against her. I took a deep breath. Fourteen and a half years. Wow, that s old. And look at her toenails. I nodded. They were long and curved. She hadn t been groomed in seven weeks. I thought about the click clack sound on the dining room floor that I might never hear again. I flapped my hand again. Do you have a basset? I muttered. Yes. She s five months old. I smiled. What joy. Kellian, the vet s assistant came to the door. We can take Charcoal now.
4 Do you want me to stay with you? Becky asked. I shook my head and hugged her. Adam is coming. Adam will get here, I said silently. He has to. He has to say, Good-bye, too. Charcoal followed me into the back hallway and the large scale. Kellian weighed her. How much? I asked. Thirty-two pounds. She s lost ten pounds since July. The number jarred me. Seeing her ribs through her black fur, feeling each vertebrae on her back hadn t been confirmation enough. We entered the examining room. Dr. Wallen was waiting for us. The steel table had a fluffy pink towel covering it and a box of tissues. They had prepared. Dr. Wallen already knew. Charcoal was gently lifted onto the table. Dr. Wallen kissed her nose, looked at her eyes, and then smelled her breath. Whoa, I told her. It really stinks. It s not her teeth, she whispered. It s the acid in her blood stream. Her kidneys are shutting down. She petted Charcoal and looked at me. It s the right time, Ellen. She s starving to death
5 and she ll start to have convulsions. That won t be good for her and it s not a pretty picture for you. I nodded. I didn t flap my hands. Who cared if I cried and couldn t speak? I put my arms around my puppy s neck and sobbed. I felt a hand on my back and looked up to see my friend Judi. I hadn t expected her. She smiled knowingly. We then jostled around a bit, our four arms trying to fit together to find a way to cuddle my shivering dog. We figured it out and settled down. We talked to her the whole time, our voices soft and soothing as the doctor injected her with a sedative. This will relax her, Dr. Wallen said. You can take as much time as you need before I give her the last shot. She left the room as Charcoal slowly stretched out on the table. Judi and I leaned over her, our heads touching as we rested against her. She stopped shaking. Judi stroked her muzzle. I held her, my arm supporting her head. Then Charcoal s tongue rolled out of her mouth and unfolded onto the towel. My eyes opened wide. My cocker spaniel, Cocoa, used to stick out the tip of her tongue like that, I said. I even smiled at the memory.
6 Cocoa? I looked up at Kellian who was standing in the doorway. That s what the man in the waiting room named his basset. First Becky, then Judi, and now Cocoa. Old friends. Comforting. My son Adam came in. There had been a lot of traffic and he was upset that his dog was already asleep. I tried to reassure him that she knew he was there. Judi left us and we reminisced. We laughed about the time Charcoal ate a whole box of See s candy and how her poop smelled for days from chocolate even though she had had her stomach pumped. We remembered the times I would call her, Adam! when she did something wrong. She s my other child. I smiled. Parents often confuse their kids! I looked at the clock. Five fifty. A lifetime had transpired in only fifty minutes. Dr. Wallen walked in. I knew the office closed at six. Things were shutting down. I took Adam s hand. I took a deep breath. Okay, I said. We watched as a vein was found in her left leg. We held her as the doctor shaved the spot and injected the medicine. We
7 stroked her as the pink liquid coursed through her bloodstream. Within seconds of the time the shot was administered, Charcoal s heart stopped beating and she was gone. We lingered for a while longer with her. It was hard to stay; it was hard to go. It was hard. The hugs and the kind words from the staff could go only so far. Then Judi, Adam and I exited the building into the cold night air and had to go our separate ways. In the snap of a finger Charcoal was gone and at peace. But there will be no snap of the finger for me, and my peace will take a lot longer. Yet isn t that the truth about death? The people left behind continue to suffer? It s been two weeks now and I still want to rush home after work to be with her. I still walk around the house checking that she s not underfoot and when I watch television, I look to the spot where her pillow used to be and I expect to find her there. But the hardest part of all is that I didn t hold her enough. Just one more time would do it--or maybe two, or three. Yet, I am making progress. There are minutes now and sometimes hours that I don t think about her and cry. And I am
8 keeping myself busy with friends and family and even celebrating birthdays and holidays. Still before I go to sleep at night, I hold on to my son s old stuffed animal, Ears. I close my eyes and imagine Charcoal running wild as a healthy, happy pup. I see her romping with Cocoa, and even playing with my parents. Her ears are flying in the wind and all the aches and pains of aging have disappeared. Then and only then can I smile and fall asleep. Ellen S. Schmalholz is a freelance writer living in Santa Monica, CA.