On Closing an Open Door

My Dearest Smokey,

The veterinarian said I made the right decision, but I can't help but feel ruefully conscience-stricken.  Taking the remainder of your life from you was difficult and jarring...but please, please, please believe me...these past few months, your suffering trumped your ability to stay content.  I tried my best to make these last moments enjoyable for you.  I suppose only you will know the answer to that one.

It was excruciating tricking you into the hospital today.  When I first saw you at the Humane Society in 1998, you were a shaky, insecure pup.  Somebody must've treated you horribly wrong, because your heart expelled all kinds of distrust, so much so that you wouldn't even let me take you home.  Nevertheless, with time and commitment we built an intimate bond together...and for fifteen years, you trusted me to keep you far away from harm.  Leading you into that veterinary hospital will go down as my crowning deceit.  I'm so sorry.  You probably thought you were going on a walk, didn't you?  Please don't hold this against me.

There are hard choices in life...and they must be made effortlessly at times, despite the pain they casually string along in their wake.  Smokey, you will forever be absent from the rest of my life...and this choice that I've made...well, its burden is mine and mine alone.  I know I made the correct decision, but for today, I shall relish my guilt and sadness;  I'll hold them up like trophies, mainly because these are the equitable rights that come along with being a fragile, tender human being.

I'm so sorry that I had to let you go.  I love you more than you'll ever know.  Thanks for being my friend.

Into The Great Wide Open

My Dearest Smokey,

So it's here. The veterinarian has brought down the pulsing news that I was absolutely unwilling to acknowledge.  It's time for us to let each other go.

I don't really want to talk about how I'm feeling, so I suppose I won't.  Just understand that I'm just going to love you as much as I can until Monday comes. 

An Uneasy Struggle

My Dearest Smokey,

Your death, it hovers close; an unfortunate reality that pushes hard against your quivering, little heart.

Yesterday, Melanie and I entered into a rather heated argument over your well-being.  Her contention rests mainly with watching you struggle to find comfort.  She blames me for being headstrong and mentally unable to come to terms with your mortality.  There's a part of me that would prefer to idly dismiss her concerns, but they're as valid as my love is for you.  It's true.  I see your unhappiness and I am unwilling to let you go.

Shall it be easier for you to die?  I took you for a brief walk today and you seemed ecstatic, albeit it only for ten minutes.  I would've walked you all day long, but your stamina, it's a sliver of what it once was.  This temporary happiness...is it worth it to you?  Is it enough?  Or are you simply done with it all?

Oh, how you used to be filled with life!  Old age holds a unique type of brutality, the sort that marks this world with utter and blatant iniquity.

I suppose I could keep you inside.  You seem to manage the first floor of our house relatively well.
 But what life is that for a dog?  Is it even worth living? 

I'm beginning to realize that I already know the answers to all these questions...

The Droppings of Enfeeblement

My Dearest Smokey,

Today I was curtly informed that you pooped underneath the dining room table again.  For the life of me, I don't understand why you keep defecating there.  Does it give you some warm sense of relief?  Does it just feel appropriate?

Either way, the general conscious around the house is that you should be killed for being old, stinky, and senile. 

Okay, I phrased that last sentence poorly - I apologize - but that notion is pretty much a reality around here these days.  Everyone's grown tired of you.  Don't get me wrong, they still care for you, but just not enough to go through the ridiculously taxing times of canine anility.  It may not sound pretty, but they want me to rob your last breaths from you, partially because it's the only humane option, but also because it's the most convenient one as well. 

I admit, I struggle with this decision on a daily basis.  You're just a dog, but I love you more than I should.  Does this love prevent me from giving you respite?  That's a subjective question, mainly because nobody knows how miserable your life is right now save for you.  Will the great void of postmortem provide you more peace than the slight psychosis of your present day existence?  Who knows.  I wish you'd just crawl under the porch or stop eating.  Just give me a sign.  I'd gladly abide by your will.

Personally, if I could afford myself the mental fortitude, I'd poop under the table with you everyday of the week!  Live and let live, no matter how many levels of insanity this world bares down upon our souls!  Like I said, it's just me and you here, playboy.  Ride till we die!  

This May Be The Lamest Post Ever

My Dearest Smokey,

Time may have robbed you of your youth, but the memories, they shall forevermore exist in the breath of my everlasting soul.

Smokey Dog

A Wrinkle in Time

My Dearest Smokey,

As time slips by, we often tend to forget the former parts of ourselves.  Here's a reminder, from the bottom of my heart to the top of all your furry, little anxieties.

From an extremely old blog of mine, back when you were a sprightly seven years old...


Things You Might Definitely Find Lying Around My House For No Apparent Reason Whatsoever

A deathly timid and insecure dog

A deathly timid and insecure dog whose self-esteem is so low that he'll let you drape comforters all over his body just so you can take funny pictures of him

And The Rest Of This Post Is All Gravy...

Mr Dearest Smokey,

I don't get the opportunity to willfully undermine many aspects of my relationship with Melanie, so I found myself quite excited today when your feeble four paws stumbled up to her dinner plate and tried snagging some Chicken Saagwala off her plate.

"Smokey, no!  You don't get a free pass just because you're old!" 

What'd you say, my sweet lover?  No free passes?  Well, I got about two dozen of these bad boys wasting away in the dampness of my basement, all of them righteously earned from my dancing queen days. You best believe one of them is gonna be applied tonight, particularly in a form of relationship treachery so dishonorable that Dear Abby herself would take up arms.

 

Now, Hark!  Melanie, is that your cell phone buzzing in our bedroom?  Odds are it's me accidentally butt-dialing you from under the table.  Why don't you race upstairs and see who it is.  I need to feed our mutt the only thing in this world he truly deserves: your dinner. 

Just One Favor, Por Favor

My Dearest Smokey,

When you die, could you please come back and haunt me in the form of a giant, mediating retriever?

 

Thanks, buddy.  I'll owe you big time!

Off to the Races

My Dearest Smokey,

I'm sorry.  This has been a long time in the lurch.  Death nears.

I know you don't understand what awaits you...but rest assured, I do.  The ultimate causality of our existence is our inevitable march towards that singular moment when we cease to exist; and when your moment comes, I'm saddened to say it's gonna be cold, unforgiving, and infinitely finite in its end result.  There won't be any doggy Heaven; nor a doggy Hell.  You're going to just cease to exist.  All that deft animal instinct you currently see diminishing before your eyes?   One day it will just...extinguish.  All that will be left will be the nothingness - and don't get me wrong, that notion sounds like at least something, but that's only because I'm a sub-par writer who doesn't have the grammatical means to adequately describe the concept of a never ending void.  Trust me, it's going to totally suck.

That's a bad beat, my little buddy.  This type of fate shouldn't even exist, let alone consume your sense of living.   It's not fair and you don't deserve it at all.

My beloved one, best case scenario is you've got six months left; worst case you're gone by Wednesday.  Either way, I vow these two things to you:

1. I'm going to get incredibly loaded on a regular basis and spend some of my evenings updating this blog with a succession of wild and crazed emotions, all directly attached to my not-so-subtly anthropomorphized, first-world problem: YOU.
2. You're going to burn out in fucking style, just the way you'd want it.

Tonight, I leave the cabinet door wide open.  The garbage can, it overflows.  Can you smell it, pal?  I just sprinkled a couple teaspoons of two-day old Tilapia juices all around its edges, mainly because I love the living shit out of you.  

Have yourself a ball, playa.  You deserve it.