At Rest and Restless
PJ, my Maltese dog of thirteen and a half years died in my father's arms Thursday via intravenous injection. The poison they put into his bloodstream was a brilliant shade of blue. It makes me wonder whether the people who created the poison were trying to poke fun at the dogs and cats whose lives would end by the beautiful cerulean contaminant swirling in their tiny veins. My parents took photos of the injection into my dog's shaved little foreleg. They are morbid. Who takes photos of an untimely death?
Enervated b the grief and random crying fits, I took a four hour nap after returning home from work yesterday. Normally, I'd find the presence of a dog at home therapeutic (or the thought of my dog being alive at home in CA), but considering my dog was neither A.) home nor B.) alive, my choice of therapy was slumber. Sleeping it all off seems a much easier choice than to stay awake confronted by waves of guilt and shame that I'd not shown my dog enough love while I still lived at home or that by leaving home to be with N in Michigan, I had caused his deterioration, and ultimately, his death.
I still think of him as my dog. Truly, though, he more belonged to my father. When PJ was about seven years old, I left for college for three years; I spent my summers up there, refusing to come home at all but for brief spurts during holidays. I returned home after dropping out of that school to attend a much cheaper public college while I debated what the hell I should do with my life and what road I would take to get there. During that time home, did I love the dog as I should have? My gut is telling me, no, I didn't. My dad bathed Pj most of the time, brushed his hair, gave him food and water, took him for walks, played ball with him. Fridays (bath day), found PJ nestled in my parents' laps while I prepped and primped myself to go clubbing with my girlfriends. Even then I didn't realise time was precious short with the tiny mutt.
He slept on the floor of my room in a tiny, furry white and tan ball next to my computer. The heat the hard drives kicked out created a small cocoon of warmth next to the computer tower. He would nuzzle my feet while I, distracted, updated my Myspace profile. Absently, I would rub my feet along his belly, petting him without knowing that he had rolled over so I could pet him where it felt best. He would sit outside my bathroom door, curiously peering up at me doing my hair or applying my makeup. He'd bark ferociously in that tiny voice at the hair drying, try to take a nip at the air that flowed from it. he would follow me to the door when I was leaving and sometimes I'd pet his head softly and say, "bye bye, PJ." Most times, though, I wouldn't. I'd just leave.
Is it only me who thinks his death untimely? That he was taken before he was meant to go? It wasn't his choice to die. He was somehow clinging onto life, if only by a dangerously thin thread. Is it only me who thinks this? Probably.
You didn't see him suffering, my dad reminded me last night, voice flat and calm, like the even keel of a boat on a quiet sea. I saw him screaming in pain and refusing to eat. I saw him ageing, going deaf and blind. He's not supposed to live like that... imagin what his life would've been like if we'd kept him alive. We couldn't leave him at home. He wouldn't be able to go potty or do anything but sleep.
No! You're wrong, I wanted to contradict him. I was angry and sad and hurt. PJ would've been well if I was there. I just know it.
Is anyone in this family grieving like me? I talk to my mum and hear the acceptance in her voice, clear and free. I doubt PJ's passing was a tough reality to bear for my brother, who thought PJ more nuisance than loving family pet.
Awake now from my long sleep, two days after the procedure, my dad's words ring in my ears: "Anak (my child), he is resting now." The words pierce me. He is resting and I am not. Nothing puts this pain to sleep.
While I mull over his passing, my stomach turns to food. I am too awake now, too far that the realm of slumber cannot summon me. So the next drug is food. I spent most of my sleep dreaming about Taro (Japanese red bean paste) bread. So i got up and spent a good twenty five minutes researching--searching more like--for Taro bread recipes. I came away empty-handed and craving a loaf with the soft purple paste swirled into the spongy lavender bread.
I need something sweet to make the pounding in my chest abate.
My little friend is resting somewhere, but the grief of his going away won't give me a break.
Enervated b the grief and random crying fits, I took a four hour nap after returning home from work yesterday. Normally, I'd find the presence of a dog at home therapeutic (or the thought of my dog being alive at home in CA), but considering my dog was neither A.) home nor B.) alive, my choice of therapy was slumber. Sleeping it all off seems a much easier choice than to stay awake confronted by waves of guilt and shame that I'd not shown my dog enough love while I still lived at home or that by leaving home to be with N in Michigan, I had caused his deterioration, and ultimately, his death.
I still think of him as my dog. Truly, though, he more belonged to my father. When PJ was about seven years old, I left for college for three years; I spent my summers up there, refusing to come home at all but for brief spurts during holidays. I returned home after dropping out of that school to attend a much cheaper public college while I debated what the hell I should do with my life and what road I would take to get there. During that time home, did I love the dog as I should have? My gut is telling me, no, I didn't. My dad bathed Pj most of the time, brushed his hair, gave him food and water, took him for walks, played ball with him. Fridays (bath day), found PJ nestled in my parents' laps while I prepped and primped myself to go clubbing with my girlfriends. Even then I didn't realise time was precious short with the tiny mutt.
He slept on the floor of my room in a tiny, furry white and tan ball next to my computer. The heat the hard drives kicked out created a small cocoon of warmth next to the computer tower. He would nuzzle my feet while I, distracted, updated my Myspace profile. Absently, I would rub my feet along his belly, petting him without knowing that he had rolled over so I could pet him where it felt best. He would sit outside my bathroom door, curiously peering up at me doing my hair or applying my makeup. He'd bark ferociously in that tiny voice at the hair drying, try to take a nip at the air that flowed from it. he would follow me to the door when I was leaving and sometimes I'd pet his head softly and say, "bye bye, PJ." Most times, though, I wouldn't. I'd just leave.
Is it only me who thinks his death untimely? That he was taken before he was meant to go? It wasn't his choice to die. He was somehow clinging onto life, if only by a dangerously thin thread. Is it only me who thinks this? Probably.
You didn't see him suffering, my dad reminded me last night, voice flat and calm, like the even keel of a boat on a quiet sea. I saw him screaming in pain and refusing to eat. I saw him ageing, going deaf and blind. He's not supposed to live like that... imagin what his life would've been like if we'd kept him alive. We couldn't leave him at home. He wouldn't be able to go potty or do anything but sleep.
No! You're wrong, I wanted to contradict him. I was angry and sad and hurt. PJ would've been well if I was there. I just know it.
Is anyone in this family grieving like me? I talk to my mum and hear the acceptance in her voice, clear and free. I doubt PJ's passing was a tough reality to bear for my brother, who thought PJ more nuisance than loving family pet.
Awake now from my long sleep, two days after the procedure, my dad's words ring in my ears: "Anak (my child), he is resting now." The words pierce me. He is resting and I am not. Nothing puts this pain to sleep.
While I mull over his passing, my stomach turns to food. I am too awake now, too far that the realm of slumber cannot summon me. So the next drug is food. I spent most of my sleep dreaming about Taro (Japanese red bean paste) bread. So i got up and spent a good twenty five minutes researching--searching more like--for Taro bread recipes. I came away empty-handed and craving a loaf with the soft purple paste swirled into the spongy lavender bread.
I need something sweet to make the pounding in my chest abate.
My little friend is resting somewhere, but the grief of his going away won't give me a break.