SHE KNOWS

This piece is dedicated to anyone who has ever lost a beloved pet.

SHE KNOWS



The jangle of a leash used to bring her bounding out of the bedroom and off the bed which I had relinquished to her long ago.  Her bounds are not nearly as frisky as they once were and she no longer chews my leather pumps or couch pillows, but she still gets excited about a walk.

Once outside, she pulls me down the bike path and I let her.  A jogger asks “Just who’s walking who?” as we meet on the trail.   How many times have I heard that?  We tried obedience classes but they did nothing for either of our self esteems.  So we settled into our “who’s walking who” routine with a quiet understanding.

We walk further than usual this morning.   I don’t worry about the ant-covered rancid bologna sandwich she snags and I let her sniff and sprinkle every bush on the walking path, marking territory as if she were a conquering Amazon warrior.  I can’t help but get a spooky feeling.  She knows.

When we get home, I strip from my clothes, while she looks up at me anxiously.  “Wanna jump in the pool?” I ask her.  She hobbles to the back door, tired from the long walk.   But that pool is irresistible. She gingerly steps each paw down the stairs.  Too exhausted to swim, she settles on the top stair, and watches me glide across the pool.  When I surface near her face, I notice how white it has become.  I look into her eyes, marbled with cataracts.  “Mommy loves you,” I say, the words choking at my throat.  She knows.

I towel her off before we go back inside because she is too tuckered out to shake the water off her chocolate brown fur. She doesn’t have the strength for it.  Not anymore. 

Back in the house, I glance at the clock and see we have half an hour.  I open the freezer and pull out a carton of Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey.  I place the entire pint of rich ice cream in her silver dog bowl.  Her ears perk up in complete astonishment and she laps the dreamy sea of delicious decadence up in no time. She knows.

The knock on the door racks me with a sob.   She makes a feeble attempt to bark and lumbers over to the door.  Dr. Elliot greets her with a treat.  Patting her head, he says, “Good girl.  You’re a good girl.”

I’m shaking when we enter the living room.  But I have to be strong. Without a word, the vet pats my shoulder and leads me to the couch.  She follows us, her tail still wagging, a symbol of her unwavering trust and loyalty. 

“Take a seat on the floor with her,” Dr. Elliot almost whispers.  I obey, unable to function on my own.  She cradles on my lap, all 75 pounds of her, and I rumple her ears and accept the loving kisses she has for me.  I hear the doctor rummaging in his bag.  When he turns to face us, I bend closer to her, letting her lick the salty tears from my cheeks.  “You’re a good girl,” I say, and bury my head in her neck.

When it’s time, I hold her head with both hands and gaze into those brown eyes brimming with devotion and unconditional love.  I see an understanding so deep I am engulfed by it.  She is grateful.  She knows.