She Knows
The jangle of a leash used to bring her bounding out of the
bedroom and off the bed, which I had long ago relinquished to her. Her bounds are not 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. We all know the
answer. 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 rancid bologna
sandwich she snarfs down and I let her sniff every tree and bush on the walking
path, marking territory as if she were a conquering warrior. I can’t help but get that 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 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 brown eyes brimming with devotion and unconditional love. And more.
I see an understanding so deep that I am swallowed by it. She is grateful. She knows.
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