There’s a panic attack looming. I can feel it. The right decision. The wrong decision. The happy memories. The sad reality. Good. Bad. Up. Down. Win. Lose. Life. Death.
The doctor holds Lily’s head in her hands and covers her ears.
“You’re making the compassionate decision.”
There will be no miracles.
There will be no tomorrows.
I nod like my head weighs a hundred pounds and make some sort of noise. Pain mixed with acknowledgment mixed with consent.
Again. “It’s the compassionate decision.”
My eyes blur.
I’m underwater.
Fishful Thinking has capsized.
I am drowning.
“How does this work?” I already know that I don’t want the answer.
“I’m going to take Lily and fit her with a small catheter in her leg so we can easily inject the drugs intravenously. There will be two. The first will render her unconscious. She will be asleep, but still alive. You can have a moment with her to say good-bye. And then when you say, we will inject the second drug to cause cardiac arrest. Once we inject that second drug, it should be over within thirty seconds or so.”
“Two drugs,” I say.
The woman reaches for Lily, but I don’t let go.
“Right now we’re just going to find a vein and fit her with a catheter so things will go as smoothly as possible.”
She reaches for Lily again, and this time I loosen my grip. She promises to be back in a few moments.
I’m alone in the room and for the first time I can stand. I walk in three tight circles the way Lily does before lying down. Except I don’t lie down. I pound my thighs with my fists.
I need to feel pain. Physical pain.
I slam my arm against the metal examining table in an effort to break something. The pain splinters up to my shoulder and it feels good. So good I do it again.
But I don’t need to break anything.
My heart is broken enough.
Time stops.
Time passes.
The woman returns, this time with an assistant. The assistant offers a half-smile but otherwise does her best to be invisible.
The veterinarian places Lily on the table. She’s still wrapped in my blanket. Her leg is exposed. I can see the catheter. It is taped in place with plastic.
I kneel down in front of Lily so that we are face-to-face.
“Hi, Monkey. Hi, Tiny Mouse.”
Lily chuffs a few deep breaths.
“There is a wind coming,” I cue her.
Silence.
There is no Cate Blanchett. There is no response. She can no longer command the wind, sir. She no longer has the hurricane inside of her.
Lily makes one last effort to stand, and that’s when I really lose it.
We can still run. We can still break out of here. We can still choose life.
But what kind of life would it be?
Instead, I shower Lily’s face with kisses.
“So many adventures we had. And I loved every one.”
Lily’s head droops and I kiss her again.
The assistant holds her back legs and I hold her front.
I nod at the veterinarian.
“Okay. I’m going to inject the first drug. The anesthesia. She’s just going to fall asleep.”
Sleep well, my beautiful slinkster dog.
The anesthesia is fast.
For a few seconds, nothing. But then Lily’s eyes open wide as she feels the whoosh of the drug inside her. Then her eyes grow heavy.
She blinks once, maybe twice.
She staggers left.
We slowly lower her to the table, where she falls gently asleep.
“Let me know when you’re ready and I will inject the second drug.”
“Wait!” I snap.
I’m not ready.
OH GOD WHAT HAVE I DONE?
Why is this happening?
It’s Thursday.
Thursdays are the days my dog Lily and I set aside to talk about boys we think are cute. I look at the tape on the catheter, the bandage holding it in place.
Rip the Band-Aid. Quick. It’s the only way.
“Okay.” I can feel the letters vomit off my tongue.
O.
K.
A.
Y.
I watch the vet insert the syringe into the catheter and inject the second drug. And then the adventures come flooding back:
The puppy farm.
The gentle untying of the shoelace.
THIS! IS! MY! HOME! NOW!
Our first night together.
Running on the beach.
Sadie and Sophie and Sophie Dee.
Shared ice-cream cones.
Thanksgivings.
Tofurky.
Car rides.
Laughter.
Eye rain.
Chicken and rice.
Paralysis.
Surgery.
Christmases.
Walks.
Dog parks.
Squirrel chasing.
Naps.
Snuggling.
Fishful Thinking.
The adventure at sea.
Gentle kisses.
Manic kisses.
More eye rain.
So much eye rain.
Red ball.
The veterinarian holds a stethoscope up to Lily’s chest, listening for her heartbeat.
All dogs go to heaven.
“Your mother’s name is Witchie-Poo.” I stroke Lily behind her ears in the way that used to calm her. “Look for her.”
OH FUCK IT HURTS.
I barely whisper. “She will take care of you.”
I look up at the vet, pleading. Inject me. Give me the poison, too. At least enough to make my heart stop breaking. Anything. Just please make it stop.
After ten more seconds, the vet pulls her stethoscope away. She doesn’t need to say anything.
Lily is gone.
“I’m so sorry for your loss.” She puts her hand on my shoulder while motioning for her assistant. “Take all the time with her you need.”
I don’t even notice them leave.
Time passes. I don’t know how much. I’m aware I’m alone in the room with Lily and that is the only thing I’m aware of. I kiss the tip of her nose.
“Oh, god, please forgive me.”
I’m sitting on the floor with my legs tucked to my chest and I’m rocking back and forth.
The tiniest bit of tongue hangs out of Lily’s mouth. So pink. So still. So lifeless.
So many tears. I can’t remember ever in my life crying this hard.
This is some sort of mistake. It has to be.
I slide my hand under the blanket and place it on Lily’s chest. She’s still warm, but her chest does not rise and fall like it does in even her deepest sleeps. I keep it there long enough to make sure, but after some
