For Rusty, George, Sammie, and Todd -- the very best of the best

By Peter Bowden
The vet said it was time. The old dog had stopped eating three days ago, and now he couldn’t stand. His eyes were still bright, but his breath came heavy and slow. We carried him out to the car and drove into town. He didn’t cry. He hadn’t cried once. Not when the pain started. Not when the strength left his legs. He only watched us with that quiet, steady look he always had, like he knew everything that was coming and had already made peace with it. At the office, they led us into a small room with white walls. It smelled clean. Too clean. The kind of clean that makes your stomach hurt. The vet was kind. She spoke in a low voice and told us what would happen. We nodded. There wasn’t much to say. I held his head in my hands, and he leaned into me like he used to when we sat on the porch after a long day of walking in the woods. The needle went in, and he gave one last breath. It was quiet. Not soft, not loud. Just final. We drove home in silence. The sky had turned the color of gunmetal. The house felt too big without him padding through the rooms. I buried him near the oak tree. The same tree where he used to chase squirrels, though he never caught one. I drank a glass of whiskey and sat on the back steps. You never get used to losing a good dog. You just learn to carry it like everything else that matters and ends.

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