Day 11 - it is warm and sunny. A slight breeze is blowing across my face as I sit next to Rusty. My hand is on the groove between his shoulder and elbow. It fits right in there. I can feel his heart beating erratically under my hand. I watch his chest blow out hard and suck in, then stop. I keep wondering if he’ll just stop breathing on his own, but I don’t think so. I used to sit with my hand over Mom’s heart, feeling its beat, reassuring me of her life. It’s hard to sit out here. Steve joins me and lays down in the grass, spooning Rusty. He gently rubs Rusty’s ear, then runs his hand down his neck and scratched under it, where Rusty likes best. Rusty moans a little, shakes and tries to lift his head. Steve sighs and we just sit there until we see the vet coming toward us with her big blue bag. Steve gets up and plugs in the power cord. I don’t know if I can stay here. The vet gently explains that she will give Rusty a sedative, wait for 5-10 minutes until we know he’s completely relaxed, then she will shave a spot on his leg where she will give him another shot that will do more than just relax him. I take deep breaths and wonder again how long I can stay. She gives him the relaxant and I see Rusty’s whole body relax. I don’t think there’s too much difference in his energy before or after the sedative. I can stay for this, but when she takes out the clippers, I remember being handed the scissors right after Mom died. They wanted me to cut her hair so we could keep strands of it. I didn’t want to cut it - that was almost more painful than being with her when she died. I reach for her hair, hold it between my fingers, look at its beautiful silver, feel it silky. I drop it. I pick it up again. And drop it. And pick it up again and cut a patch right near her scalp. It looks awful. I feel awful. I’ve ruined her beautiful haircut. I lift another strand and cut again. And again. The whole right side of her head is full of chopped, uneven hair. Enough. I put the strands into a baggie, zip it up, and leave the room.
I can’t stay with Rusty. The vet is holding the clippers, and I excuse myself, hug Steve, and walk into the house. I stand at our picture window and feel my eldest son come up beside me and put his arm around me. We watch through the glass as she shaves our dog, then injects him. I watch Steve as he tenderly pets Rusty, even after he’s dead, rearranging his paws so he’s more comfortable. I watch him wipe at his eyes, and I watch and I watch, behind the glass. I am sad, not so much for Rusty, but for Steve, who loved Rusty so dearly. This is hard. This is very hard. But it’s also kind. Very very kind, and sometimes the hardest things we do are also the kindest things we do.
Day 12 - I went to Dan’s Supermarket and grabbed a cardboard box and started down the aisle. Geraniums, daisies, pansies, swedish ivy, the sticky pointy plants, the little purple ones, the marigolds - bright orange marigolds. I bring them to the counter and the clerk asks me if I’ve found everything. “I used to come in here every year and put plants in the containers on my mom and dad’s deck. Mom died two years ago, and now I’m doing it for my dad.” She just looks at me. “I guess you didn’t ask me to tell you all of that,” I say, mildly embarrassed, wondering why, yet again, I’ve said WAY more than I needed to say. But I wanted her to know that her store is part of our tradition of bringing beauty and color to my father’s house. It was important to my mother, and now it’s important to my dad. At least I think it’s important to Dad - maybe it’s just important to me. But I continue to do it every year, and I love looking out the door and seeing the bright spots of color looking back at me. They remind me of Mom. I think it’s kind to plant flowers in the containers every summer. I think it’s important to do things for others, even small things, to show them that we care, that we love them, that we cherish and respect them, and I DO love, cherish, honor, and respect my father. He is an amazing being. And besides that, it’s really easy to be kind to him. He teaches the rest of the world how to do it, every day.