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the vet came back in. asked, 'you sure?', eyeing the crowd -- 7 of us, corey being the lone one among us who could not bear it.
corey nonetheless had his face pressed to the window. somehow, the wood of the door and thin pane of glass provided enough separation, just enough detachment, from the imminent passing of the dog he'd known since he was 5.
they'd taken corky into the back and inserted a catheter, and brought him back into the room with us.
he promptly trotted to the door, with purpose. "this is the way of vets", i can imagine him thinking. "the people in the nasty smelling clothes come in, talk nice to you. pet you. play with you. then they are poking something up your butt, or stabbing you in your paw".
we had to convince corky to come back to the middle of the room. the assistant pulled out an orange blanket, laid it upon the middle of the floor. corky walked right to it, plopped down, rolled to his side, and began rubbing his nose on it.
"you won't have to do that anymore" i thought.
it wasn't his quilt. i'd halfway thought of bringing that. my wife had made it from scraps of other quilts she's made for all of our children, and family and friends. its chaotic, but cohesive. kinda like our family, i guess. pink and purple nine blocks, from cj1's quilt. lining and edging in pink and yellow from jj2 and cj4's quilts. green backing from a christmas wall hanging, i think.
whenever my wife would quilt, there's a part called basting, where she has to lay the quilt down on the floor, and make a sandwich of the backing, the batting (filler stuff), and the top, held together with spray adhesive. after a day or so, you're good to start doing the actual quilting, the threading together of all of the pieces -- my wife prefers a random, meandering pattern, the quilty name eludes me at the moment.
but corky would ALWAYS lay right down in the middle of the quilt after it was basted. my wife was exasperated at first (you don't want anybody knowing that the baby quilt you made for their newborn was quality tested by our dog, no matter how cute he is). so years ago, she made him his own quilt. and he LOVED that quilt. and was particular about it. we'd have to straighten it up. if it was balled up or bunched up, he would sleep next to it, but not on it. he hasn't slept on his quilt in a couple weeks now. during his fitful nights, when MY dead to the world slumber provides me respite, my wife's fragile sleep has made her aware of his discomfort. of late, he's preferred to go down to bed on the bathroom tile. the cool ceramic providing him as much comfort as possible, as he searched all night, for a position that didn't hurt, or which allowed him to breath with minimal conscious effort.
so we didn't bring the quilt. why taint that good memory, that pleasant memento and connection with this, the hour of his passing?
so corky lay on the orange, petsmart blanket. he nipped at the vet as she attempted to put the needle in the catheter. my wife, the vet, the assistant spoke to him in soothing voices that this would not hurt. nothing would hurt. there would be no hurt. the five of us on the floor, him in the center, and five of my children standing in an awkward, expectant ring. connie in the corner.
we managed to let him let the vet do her thing. the first shot puts him to sleep, with a lower case 's'.
its milky white, a few droplets spill from the hyperdermic. i'm trying to reassure him. i realize i'm not audible. sobs are catching and holding back my words. it won't hurt anymore. lets chase some rabbits. i l--.. it won't come out. i l-
the vet translates. he knows you love him. he loves you, too. my wife is saying something about how she wishes we had the money to do the chemo, that we could do something more, something else, pleading and apologetic to corky, whose eyes now glaze.
"you are doing ALL that you could do", the vet reassures. "you are giving him a gift. you have LOVED him", she intones, softly, while inserting the next shot.
i'm hunched over, snot dripping, tears dripping, unable to talk.
have i cried like this for an actual person? i think. i can't recall. but, thank God, i've never had to cry like this for a person who is so wholly and utterly dependent on me, as corky was. or anyone or anything as deeply a part of the tapestry of our family as him. i cried for tom, our 15yr old cat, and my friend. but we waited too long. far too long. his death was relief. and i dropped him off and could not bear witness. not even through the window, like corey. tricia couldn't even come, so wracked with guilt and grief, the thought of the torment she caused, telling him 'you can't die. stay here for me'.
this was different. similar. but different.
i had much that i wanted to say. i don't know if corky heard 'i love you', that last one. but i pray that he felt it.
but we watched him, laying down, eyes glazed, as the final two shots went in. i'd corrected cj1 earlier. it wasn't like lethal injection. it was a shot to put him to sleep. and then, basically, an overdose of anesthetic. Propofol, the doctor told us.
i overrode my normal need to insert facts and anecdotes, disrupting the flow of things to say that that's what michael jackson was on. no need to bring that up. plus i couldn't talk.
my eyes viewed the whole scene through a teary haze. i was looking at his face, not his chest, to detect the rise and fall of his lungs or, the cessation thereof.
the vet was reaching for him with her stethoscope and my wife was saying, incredulously, but getting louder, through sobs, 'that's it? that's IT? that was so fast... that was too fast... so fast... so fast'
my oldest daugther was helping her to her feet as she repeated, like a litany, 'it was so fast'.
the assistant wrapped the ends of the orange blanket around corky, and started to pick him up.
COOOOORRRRKYYYYYYYYY!!!!!!! Connie yelled so loud it startled me. she'd been quiet, reserved, the whole time. COOOOOOOORRRRRKKKKYYYYY!!!!! COOORRRRGGGIIIIIIiiii!!!! her voice trailing off in sobs.
the vet and the assistant looked at us both, they were crying too. "i'm so sorry". "i'm so sorry". and quietly exited the room now filled with my youngest child's cries.
i tried to console her. her actual name, consuela, means to console. and she's always done that. from the time she was a little bit, she's always given the BEST hugs. crunchy hugs, i call them. the only one who's ever given hugs like that is corey. but he's a young man now. and reserved. and doesn't hug me like that anymore. connie. cj4, though. she always hugs me. she wants to stay the baby.
she, the child we were told might not walk, might not talk, is the one who had prodigal strength. i'd reach out my arms and she'd grab them, at 2 yrs old, like a gymnast, pull herself up with the strength of her upper body, flip, and hold a pike position upside down.
over the years that game evolved. she would ask me (still does) for an up-hug. and she'd climb up on me. she likes to take off running through the house. becuase that makes corky chase her. and its their game. the same as since they were puppies.
and when she gives me an up hug, some time, she'll flip upside down, and i'll yell 'fishin for COOORRRKIIIIEESS!!!' and he'd run into the room, usually the kitchen, yapping around her upside down face. she'd yell, 'fishing for COOOOOORRRR-KIIEEEEESS!!!!' "oh. i don't think they're biting today".
we haven't done that in a while.
and in this instant, when its real to her, and all of us, i realize we never will again.
i'm wondering if we've done a terrible thing in taking her at her word that she understood, and allowing her to be here for this. but i'm relieved that she DOES understand, and she's showing the emotion.
but i can't console her. i hold her and she pulls against my arms. toward the other door in the room. the one that leads to where we cannot follow.
someone, one of my kids, passes tissues all around. connie hugs my wife. i'm stunnned. we try to gain our composure.
corey comes in. his eyes are red, but not running. we eventually file our way out of room number 4. past the counter. the assistant at the counter mouths 'i'm sorry' and lowers her head. later, my wife will tell me that the lady told her that this was the toughest euthanasia they've ever had. all of the staff really loved our dog. he was so playful, and cute. she was supposed to be back there but could not. she said they were crying in the back. and that they knew that we would be making this appointment soon and dreaded it.
we walked slowly, numbly, down the main aisle of the store. a silent funereal march, eight sets of dragging footsteps, eight pairs of eyes that refused to look, to either side of us, at the owners of living, breathing, dogs, pulling at leashes, awaiting treats.
although we only live around the corner, it was the longest drive home.
peace & blessings,
x.
www.twitter.com/poetx
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** i move away from the mic to breathe in
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