Caber

She just sat there, staring at the door. Occasionally she would turn her head and look up at me, then back at the door. It was as if she knew it would be the last time she could go outside, and she wanted just one more chance to sniff around.

I left class early on Wednesday, because they said my dog's tumor was growing alarmingly fast. I probably sped a little on the drive up. She greeted me with a muffled "wuff!"; the tumor in her mouth and throat made speech really difficult for her, but she was still excited to see me.

Thursday we said goodbye - to places, to people, to things. She was still the same perky dog she ever was, I just had to stop and clean the puss coming from her mouth every ten minutes. But she was full of life, and happy to be living it. The tumor burst in a bloody mess that night, and I knew that today couldn't come too soon.

And so this morning she just sat there, staring at the vet door, as if she understood it wasn't a simple check-up or shots like normal. We brought her to this vet 11 years ago, almost exactly. She was about four pounds and the same number of weeks old - a tiny thing all covered in bulging ticks who made her weak from loss of blood. Who knew such a tired little thing would turn into a spritely and energetic puppy, and stay that way for a decade?

We had a good life. We both grew. She followed me everywhere. She missed me when I transfered. She was extatic every time I could come home. She followed me into the final room and lay down on command, her eyes a little nervous, and maybe just a little sad. I held her head and scratched her jaw. In a moment she relaxed and lay her head in my hands, her breathing slowed. I felt her pulse and knew when she was gone. I kissed her head for the last time and said thank you.

It will be a long time before I have another dog.