George’s adjectives/Painting by the author

Catchy Title About Death Here

The day after

William O. Pate II
Jul 20, 2017 · 5 min read

3:39 AM

It’s quiet and lonely this early morning without George’s presence and heavy-breathing. He always — for years — followed me into the living room or office when I got up at a ridiculously early hour.

About 25 hours ago, Misty woke me up to take over George-comforting duty. She’d taken the first shift after I went to bed around midnight. Someone needed to be with him to prevent him from moaning and barking and feeling lonely in his pain. He’d instantly calm down once one of us sat with him.

He was splayed out on the living room floor with his head resting on one of our bed pillows breathing so, so softly. He wanted to go outside, but his back legs wouldn’t cooperate with him. He could only raise himself up partly on his front legs. When I picked him up, his back feet curled up — no strength — and his front legs went wide. He’d no longer walk.

As the morning grew closer to nine, I started looking up veterinarians offering at-home euthanasia. I was surprised by (a) the rarity of them and (b) how far in advance people plan their pets’ demise. One place was booked for weeks.

Talking about killing your dog in front of your dog — now that’s morbid. But I did it.

There’s no rhyme or reason to the pricing scheme for at-home euthanasia, that is, two shots of sedatives. It ranged from $250 to $375. I locked in the nicest sounding vet (also the cheapest one) for one o’clock the next day (which would be today). I knew he needed it sooner, but the dearth of vets who seemed to care made that impossible.

I woke Misty up at a nine o’clock. I didn’t know when she wanted to have the vet come over. I wanted her to have time with George before then. I continued the calls.

Turned out, we didn’t need the vet.

A few things:

  • I was able to show him the almost-finished painting I made (above) for him and told him I’d hang it in my office to remember him always, which I will do (I still have a framed poem by my sister about and pictures of my last dog, my fur-sister, Lady, on my wall in there).
  • I laid down in front of him looking into his eyes, telling him, “You’re a good dog,” for a long while because, if there’s one thing a dog knows, it must be that — whether by voice or mouth-reading or however one displays it, dogs must know when their owners are pleased with them.
  • When I went to finish the painting, I had Misty take my place in front of George. A few minutes later, when I came back into the living room, it was time.
  • Misty had just finished reminding George of all the good times we’d had together. I heard her mention the time he and his brother, Jeff, attacked the goats we’d had brought to our house in Austin to “cut” our grass. I had to hire a human instead.
  • He hadn’t been beyond the patio in two days. He was such a good dog that he didn’t use the bathroom inside — no matter how many times we assured him it was okay — until he couldn’t, for lack of life, physically hold it any longer.
  • Misty sat next to him and I put my head in front of him again and repeated that we loved him, he was a good dog, that he’d done a great job of taking care of us and we were going to take care of him now and that it was okay to relax and let go and he was a — not good — great dog.

At approximately 11:35 AM on Wednesday, July 19, 2017, George died.

We cried.

George’s paw print/taken by Misty Cripps, saltyraconteur

Moving dead bodies is never a pleasant or graceful task. So, I moved George’s body onto a thick gray moving blanket while Misty showered. I backed the car up onto the sidewalk in front of our door and set the A/C on high. When she finished, we moved him to the car. He was, surprisingly, lighter than before. I wondered if the woman sitting outside across the street took photos.

The low-tire-pressure warning light lit up on the car a few weeks ago. I’d neglected to refill it. As we got into the car, Misty asked if we needed to get the tire aired before we left. I wanted to get the trip over with, so I avoided doing it. But, as the tires rumbled over the road on our way to the crematory in Canyon Lake, I thought about how, in my experience, cars run the best just before they break down. It reminded me of how George would rally, like earlier, when it looked like he may stick around a bit longer, mere minutes before he left.

So, now I sit here at 4:32 in the morning the day after in an inordinately silent apartment. Soon, the people upstairs will get in the shower, though.

We’ll never again have to turn up the volume on the television because of George’s heavy-breathing. I’ll never again be able to tell him he’s a lumbering oaf as we take walks.

I know I’ve anthropomorphized George to the n-th degree in these few short pieces. Be that as it may, I’ll make no apologies for it. He was a better person than most people. I raged at the world a few times yesterday morning, telling the universe it was unfair that a dog like George got only twelve or thirteen years of life while Donald Trump is president.

The good die young, they say.

I’m crying again now, so I think I’ll stop.

7:20 AM

Why do I write about George? Because I want others to know what a great dog he was, and how much he was loved. That love is possible.

an examination of free will

a few thoughts. The personal online journal of William O. Pate II. Contact at william@inadequate.net. More at inadequate.net.

)

William O. Pate II

Written by

Writer | Critic | Essayist | Public Policy | Marketing in Austin, Texas.

an examination of free will

a few thoughts. The personal online journal of William O. Pate II. Contact at william@inadequate.net. More at inadequate.net.

Welcome to a place where words matter. On Medium, smart voices and original ideas take center stage - with no ads in sight. Watch
Follow all the topics you care about, and we’ll deliver the best stories for you to your homepage and inbox. Explore
Get unlimited access to the best stories on Medium — and support writers while you’re at it. Just $5/month. Upgrade