If You Were to Ask Me

If you were to know me, you would know that I had to put down our family dog. He was two. If you were facing the same crossroad, you would ask me that dreaded question. How do you put down the family dog? This is what I'd tell you.

I wouldn't look you in the eye as I would talk. I'd look down or off to your side. I'd tell you to be mechanical about the whole thing, to stick your feelings in your back pocket. "Don't prolong it," I'd say. "Do it first thing in the morning. Waiting makes it worse."

When the time comes, you make yourself move. You put your shoes on, put the dogs leash on, put one foot in front of the other until you're both in the car. Wear sun glasses and ball cap. Drive the car. Distract yourself by watching birds along the drive. Notice pretty wreaths hung on front doors. Don't look back at the dog enjoying the car ride, barking at things outside his window. Fight back the tears. Blink, blink, blink hard. Swallow past the lump in your throat. Open your eyes wide to make space for the excess of liquid.

Pull into the vet's office. Walk inside. Leave shades on as you tell the receptionist you're here. She'll know everything. She'll look at you and mouth, "I'm sorry." Salt water will assault your eyes. Blink, blink, open eyes wide, swallow hard. Pull ball cap further down. Keep shades on. Stick face behind a magazine. Quickly, in a single motion, remove glasses and blot, blot, blot. Fabric from your sleeve should blot from eye to bottom of cheek. Continue to use magazine as needed. Read an article. Look at the chintzy art hanging in the waiting room.

Look at the floor when the vet assistant calls you to come back. She'll apologize too. Then she'll leave. You'll be in the room for several torturous minutes. Pet the dog. Walk around the room. Blink, blink, swallow.

The vet will come in. She'll say the same words as the others. She'll recognize the shades and pulled down ball cap, the sleeve that is now wet, and eyes that have been through an aerobic workout. She'll take the dog and give him a treat, she'll give you a pat on the arm. She'll offer brief words of assurance, telling you it is the right thing.

She'll lay the dog on the table and he'll look at you with eyes full of trust, not suspicious of a thing. You'll pet the dog and the blinking won't work this time. An onslaught of salty tears will spill out your eyes. Snot will run out your nose. Blot the snot first, the saltwater second. Your sleeve will be used up by now. The injection will be quick and he'll close his eyes and look like he's sleeping. It will be calm for a second. The worst is over, you'll tell yourself.

You'll hand the vet the burlap bag you brought. She'll stuff the dog's body inside and staple it shut. She'll have someone put it in the back of the car and shut the hatch. The feelings in your back pocket will try to escape, but fight the urge. It is easier to drive without saltwater vision.

Drive the car home. Don't listen to the eerie silence, the lack of noise from the back seat. Try to focus on all the bad things he did. The time he nearly killed Grandma's new poodle, or chased cars for two hours refusing to come when called. Blink, blink swallow. Turn up the radio, pick something distracting-rock music, perhaps. Don't pick country. Pull onto your road. Blot, swallow and blink a few times.

Bite your lip and get out of the car. Avoid eye contact with the kids. They'll ask a 100 questions about his last moments. Be cheery, give brief answers. Go inside and drink a latte, eat chocolate. Let your husband put the burlap bag in the hole he's dug. Expect more questions from the kids and looks that will reduce you to a hit man. They will not blink and swallow. They will sob loudly. The emotions in your back pocket will escape about now and chase you down. They will fly in your face and suffocate you. Go into your bathroom and take a moment or two. You'll now realize the worst is yet to come. Put on a new shirt with dry sleeves.

Go outside for the funeral. Let Dad do the talking. It will be hard to hear over the crying. He'll read Bible verses that says God works all things for our good. Don't expect the kids to believe it, not today at least. Put your hands in your pockets and stretch your eyes as dirt is thrown over top of the burlap bag. Ignore the knot in your stomach, the tightness in your throat, the migraine behind your eyes. You won't be hungry today, tomorrow or the next day. But you will have done what needed to be done, even though you'll question yourself 1000 times, and the what ifs will be your new companion for weeks. You'll see your dog everywhere. Hear him in the absence. The silence will be deafening, and you will blink and swallow a thousand times over the days ahead. But congratulate yourself on doing the unthinkable. You will now be a member of a unique group, those of us who know that it is possible to lovingly stroke a dog with the left hand while holding a gun in the right.