A sad convergence of things
They might be putting my dog Rusty to sleep tomorrow. He's limping really badly from bone cancer, and obviously in pain (so I've heard).
Tonight I picked up a copy of "The Unbearable Lightness of Being" (because I'm referencing it in a short story I'm writing), and flipped to a random page near the end. And this was amazing, because I wasn't expecting it at all. I opened it up to a page and began reading, and as I read, the more poignant it became. There's a 10-year old dog in the book named Karenin who has bone cancer and is about to die. Kundera writes about how the love between a person and a dog is the most idyllic, because neither party requires affirmations of love from the other. He writes about how her owners were taking care of her, how they were going to put her to sleep. The woman walks into the room the day they're putting her down, and the dog (who has been almost immobile, whimpering in pain) looks up. Karenin looks at her with this look of complete trust, which disarms the woman. For me, I don't think I could decide when to end my pet's life, when his life "no longer outweighs his pain." Anyway, they set the dog on the couch in the living room (the man was a doctor), laying her on a flower-printed sheet. The woman sits so she's looking into Karenin's eyes, and the dog licks her cheek. She whispers as he injects the dog, "It's going to be okay, it'll be alright. You'll have so much to do, you'll have all sorts of wonderful things. You won't feel a thing, it's okay." The dog dies, and they bury her outside in the garden under the tree.
I haven't cried like that since my grandmother died, and Rusty isn't even dead yet. Why is it so hard not being there? Why can't he be licking my cheek when he goes? He won't be buried in the garden. He'll be taken somewhere in a truck, "disposed of." I'll never see him again.
The night before I left for school, I said goodbye. He was in the hallway. He licked my hand. I laid my head on his chest and let it rise and fall, heard him breathe. And that will have to suffice.
Tonight I picked up a copy of "The Unbearable Lightness of Being" (because I'm referencing it in a short story I'm writing), and flipped to a random page near the end. And this was amazing, because I wasn't expecting it at all. I opened it up to a page and began reading, and as I read, the more poignant it became. There's a 10-year old dog in the book named Karenin who has bone cancer and is about to die. Kundera writes about how the love between a person and a dog is the most idyllic, because neither party requires affirmations of love from the other. He writes about how her owners were taking care of her, how they were going to put her to sleep. The woman walks into the room the day they're putting her down, and the dog (who has been almost immobile, whimpering in pain) looks up. Karenin looks at her with this look of complete trust, which disarms the woman. For me, I don't think I could decide when to end my pet's life, when his life "no longer outweighs his pain." Anyway, they set the dog on the couch in the living room (the man was a doctor), laying her on a flower-printed sheet. The woman sits so she's looking into Karenin's eyes, and the dog licks her cheek. She whispers as he injects the dog, "It's going to be okay, it'll be alright. You'll have so much to do, you'll have all sorts of wonderful things. You won't feel a thing, it's okay." The dog dies, and they bury her outside in the garden under the tree.
I haven't cried like that since my grandmother died, and Rusty isn't even dead yet. Why is it so hard not being there? Why can't he be licking my cheek when he goes? He won't be buried in the garden. He'll be taken somewhere in a truck, "disposed of." I'll never see him again.
The night before I left for school, I said goodbye. He was in the hallway. He licked my hand. I laid my head on his chest and let it rise and fall, heard him breathe. And that will have to suffice.