That Nice Girl with the Dogs
Through the evening, I sat on the couch with a book in my lap, watching as she shifted her body in careful increments, listening as her breathing became labored, then congested. Around midnight, after she refused water from a bowl placed between her paws, I retrieved a pillow and blanket to sleep by her on the floor.
Sometime during the early morning, I woke, chilled. Sirocco had left her bed and was in the kitchen lying flat on her side. As I watched, her paws began to twitch. She vomited, lost bladder control and her pupils went huge and glassy. Her entire body spasmed once, then she quieted. She managed to shift onto her belly and rested her head on her paws.
It was 4 a.m. She was close to her time. I cleaned her up with old bath towels. All the last, interrupted life processes had been emptied out of her. She was ready.
The final hour was quiet. She didn’t whimper. She didn’t seem to be in much pain. Sitting on the floor next to her head, I caressed her and whispered, “I love you, Sirocco,” and, “You’re such a good dog” over and over again. As dawn approached, I added, for both of us, “Don’t be afraid.” Her breathing began to slow. I put my hand on her shoulder and felt her soul gather itself from her body. Then, a last sigh and shudder, and she was gone, her eyes empty.
Now, weeks later as I lie in bed listening to my mother’s gentle snoring in the next room, the memory of Sirocco’s death brings me consolation. I had done what I was supposed to do. I had moved in close to her and stayed with her when she died. It comforts me to remember that, and I can sleep.
