Dog Gone: Part Two

I pull the car up in front of the house and park. I lean back in my seat and sigh. Today was long, but I’m done and it’s Friday. I can relax for the whole weekend. I take the keys out of the ignition, grab my bag, and get out of the car.

Dad comes outside before I reach the front door. His expression is grim.

“Dad? What’s wrong?”

Dad gives me a weak smile. “Sweetheart…” he says.

And I already know. My heart is dropping.

“…it’s Sammy. He’s gone,” Dad finishes. He drops his head.

I’m speechless. Gone. The word echoes in my mind and bounces to my heart. My heart is still sinking. Gone is a weight on my chest. I can’t breathe.

“Sweetheart, I’m so sorry,” Dad is looking at me with anguish in his eyes.

He doesn’t know how to comfort me. We don’t hug. My sister hugs everyone, I don’t. I do want a hug but not from Dad. I want to rush in the house and pick up Sammy and burry my face in his curly fur and cry. I can’t. I can’t hug Sammy anymore. He’s gone. Gone. Dad used that word like Sammy’s lost or something. I know that’s not what he meant. Dead is what he meant.

My face is getting hot. I can feel tears rallying in the corners of my eyes. “How?” I manage.

Dad hesitates.

Now it’s not just my heart that is dropping. My whole body it threatening collapse. “Tell me how.”

“I think he bled out.”

“What?” Somehow I find strength. I push past Dad and into the house. He follows me in. I drop my bag on the floor and whirl to face him. “Where is he?” I demand.

“Up there,” he moves his head to indicate up the stairs.

I rush up the stairs two at a time. There’s a big plastic bag in the hall by my room. My pace slows. I need to see, want to see, but— Then Mika is there, next to me. She nudges me with her muzzle. I pat her head and realize my hand is shaking. Together we walk to the bag. I lean over to look inside.

There is Sammy. The same Sammy who was perfectly fine when I left this morning. The same Sammy who’s still wearing his little onesie because he’s lost the fur on his back, and his dingy red collar. It was bright red when we brought him home from the shelter nine and a half years ago. He looks the same, except that his spirit is gone. I push the top of the bag away and sit on the stairs.

I knew he was going to pass away soon. He was 17.5 years old after all, and had recently really been declining. But I didn’t think it would be like this. I thought it would be peaceful in his sleep. Poor Sammy. He was alone. It was so slow. I hope it wasn’t painful.

Mika sits next to me and leans in. She tries to lick me. I push her away, and realize Sammy wasn’t alone. Mika was here. Oh God! “Oh God. Dad, Mika didn’t do this did she?”

Dad looks up at me from the bottom of the stairs. “I don’t think so,” he says, “I checked them both. There weren’t any bite marks.”

I don’t want to believe it. I can’t lose two dogs at the same time. I can’t. She wouldn’t hurt him. She’s a good girl. But that seed of doubt starts to split in me. The whispers about vicious pit bulls that I know to be false trickle into my thoughts. I look at Mika. She smiles and cocks her head at me. No way. There’s no way she hurt Sammy. She loved him too.

“I have to know for sure,” I say. I take out my phone and check the time. “Let’s go now before the vet closes. Did you take care of Mika?”

Dad nods, “I fed her and took her out.”

“Okay, can you take Sammy please? I can’t deal with it.” I get up and walk down the stairs and grab my purse and keys.

Dad goes upstairs and gently picks up the bag. I open the door for him.

“Be a good girl Miki,” I tell the confused dog on the landing. “We’ll be back.”

***

We sit and wait in the sparse waiting room at the vet’s office. It smells like animals and cleaner. I’m glad no one else is here. I’ve been battling tears and I know I’ll lose any minute. I read the posters on the walls about flea and tick prevention and the dangers of pet obesity. There’s a pet scale on the floor in one corner and a jar of treats on the office counter. Sammy will never use the scale or need those treats again. I hope Mika will.

I can’t stand this waiting. I want to jump out of my skin. I need to know if I will lose another dog today. I look at Dad and whisper, “Thank you.”

Dad holds my hand and squeezes. He gives me a short smile.

The doctor comes out of the back. We are the only ones in the waiting room so she doesn’t bother ushering us into a private room. She leans on the door frame that leads to the back rooms and smiles at me. She is trying to be gentle. “It looks like he broke his jaw. His bones were very brittle because of his age and size and just moving his mouth could have done it. I’m so sorry honey.” She pauses to let this sink in, then continues. “There’s no indication of any bites or fighting. This was an accident.”

I let out the breath of air I didn’t know I was holding. I slump in my seat. Relief that I will be able to keep the dog I have left flows over me. Mika is a good girl. The horror tales about pit bulls remain false. I’m ashamed I ever doubted my loyal dog.

“Do you want to keep his collar and the clothing?” the doctor asks.

“The collar,” I manage. My voice is beginning to quake. “Can we have him cremated? I want to bury him.”

The Doctor nods and disappears into the back again. She comes back with the collar.

I fill out the paperwork and Dad drives us home because I’m melting.

***

Mom is home. Dad tells her what happened. I go straight upstairs and collapse on my bed. I notice my quilt is missing, but I don’t care enough to find out why. I bury my head in my pillow and surrender my battle. I cry for the sweet old buddy I lost today. Tears fall for a long time and Mika lays next me.

Mom comes in and sits at the edge of the bed. She talks, but I don’t really hear her. Eventually I fall asleep.

***

The weekend was hard. Going to work on Monday was hard and coming home to a slight dog created mess was frustrating. Work was a little better today and now I’m home. I can take Mika for a walk and we can enjoy our time together. I want to spend time with the dog I still have. Together we can help each other move forward.

I walk into the house and my plan for a long walk vanishes. The house is a mess, worse than yesterday. Putrid odors fill the air. Mika is nowhere to be found. I drop my bag and keys and go to the kitchen. The pocket door is pushed halfway into the wall. I was the last one to leave this morning and I know I closed it. I step through the threshold.

Garbage and food are everywhere, chairs are toppled, and the refrigerator door gapes open. I close the fridge and follow the trail of destruction into the living room. Raw fish and empty packaging lay discarded under the desk. My patience is all but gone. Emotions run thin. I walk to the foot of the stairs. I know Mika is in my room.

She is grieving, and bored, and alone. I know this. I know she is a dog. But those aren’t excuses for bad behavior and I don’t need this right now. I’m supposed to be enjoying her, not spending all my time cleaning up her mess. She knows better.

I put my hands on my hips, “Mika, come here.” My voice is hard.

Mika slinks out of my room and cowers at the top of the stairs.

“Come here,” I point in front of my feet.

She skulks down the stairs and stands shaking in front of me. Her tail is tight under her legs and her head is so low it’s almost touching the ground.

“Listen,” I tell her, “This is enough. I get that you’re sad. I’m sad too. Instead of cleaning up your mess every day and being angry at you, I want to spend time with you.” My voice softens, “Let’s spend some time together. Don’t you want that?”

She slowly loosens her tail and wags it. Thump, thump, thump, against the floor.

“Okay,” I say and the edge is back in my voice. I am done with her shtick. “Then you need to QUIT it. It’s really ENOUGH.”

Mika seems to nod. Then she turns around and hightails it back upstairs. I know she’s put herself in her bed for a time out.

I clean up Mika’s mess. I almost gag as I deal with the raw fish. Apparently I don’t like it any more than she does. I can’t believe she figured out how to open the kitchen door and the refrigerator door. I allow myself a little smile. She’s a smart dog, too smart. Sammy was my buddy, and I’ll never forget him, but I still have a dog and she’s never going to let me forget that. Ever.