Post by Beelzebibble on Mar 28, 2006 10:00:17 GMT -5
Is nonfiction allowed? If not, you can move this.
The Butterfly
With Sophie it had been different. With Sophie it had happened all at once. Life had suddenly decided that she had overstayed her welcome, and had quickly and quietly shown her to the door. One day she just had to be taken in to the vet’s, and there was an end. Simple.
Nelson took his time. He’d been growing worse every day for months. More than worse, he’d been growing deader – the closest thing to a zombie I have ever seen. The rancid stench of demise hung over him at all times, like a butterfly beating its wings just before settling on a leaf. It was about a week before I began my second year at PA that the butterfly finally settled on Nelson.
His last car ride was the first where he wasn’t eager to get in. Perhaps he sensed what was waiting at the other end of that ride, or perhaps he was merely too ancient and weary to bound furiously into the car anymore. Eventually Dad was forced to pick his faithful greyhound up and gently lift him into the back.
At the vet’s, everything grew quiet, as though someone had twisted a dial and turned the volume of the world down. People spoke in hushed tones, and no noise filled the air but the subdued hums and buzzes of a medical facility. The nurse softly checked Nelson’s records before taking him into the small white room, accompanied by my parents and me.
She left us alone with him for a time. We stroked his nearly-lifeless fur endlessly. He was trembling. He tried to hide in corners of the small white room. Dad assured him that he’d been such a good boy, that he’d tried so hard to please us. Mom told him that he was going to go race with Sophie again among the clouds. I couldn’t say much.
The nurse came in again and asked if we were ready. We were, but Nelson wasn’t. He kicked and struggled as she attempted to shave the patch of his leg where she was going to administer the shot. She said it would be better if he lay down, so a thick pine-green rug was procured. Nelson had no interest. We had to force him down – gently, yet we forced him. Then he kicked and struggled his way back up. We forced him down again and he kicked and struggled his way back up again. The nurse resorted to a sedative, which she gave Nelson as soon as Dad had a firm hold on him. Then, claiming that the sedative would take ten or fifteen minutes to take effect, she left.
It would be clichéd to say that those were the longest ten or fifteen minutes of my life. All the same, I was amazed when, in the car on the way home, Dad confirmed that they really had been only ten or fifteen minutes. But perhaps it is not so surprising: we were all thinking and functioning in slow motion.
All except Nelson, who was panting heavily by now, eyes darting wildly around the walls and floor of the small white room, seeking some method of escape. Mom said at least once during the ten or fifteen minutes that he was no longer right in the head, that he might not even recognize us anymore, and I don’t know what to think of that. I do know, however, that even the sanest animal’s mind is addled once in a while by terror, and I have never seen terror so vivid as Nelson’s then.
He fought on. Even though we continued to caress and coo, and even though the sedative was beginning to iron his very rumpled nerves smooth, he fought on. He managed to insert his large greyhound form into the space between a wooden bench and the small white wall behind it, and he would not come out. We moved the bench out and slid the rug underneath him, and here he stayed for the rest of his life.
Mom and I hung back, but Dad was the hero. When Nelson finally relaxed, it was in a position I will never forget. Dad had been sitting on the ground and hugging him. He leaned into Dad, who was forced to lie back and rest his head on my leg. Nelson was now reclining sideways against and partially on top of Dad. That was, I think, the last sign of love that Nelson ever received: the last sign that his masters cared about him and were grateful to have him.
Then the nurse returned. Now Nelson was half-asleep, eyes looking out sluggishly upon the small white room. I like to believe he was at peace, but I suspect he felt more like a gladiator whose opponent has just knocked his shield from his grasp. Nelson was defenseless, and he offered no resistance when the nurse finally delivered the shot.
Unconsciousness overtook Nelson, and within another moment, he was dead in my father’s arms.
And do I think that he really is racing with Sophie among the clouds now? That those two old lovebirds, separated for six years by Sophie’s death, have now been reunited and will be together for eternity?
I don’t know. These days, I am uncertain that there is a Heaven, and thus uncer-tain that there is by extension a Dog Heaven. Maybe Nelson and Sophie have been reunited – maybe there are celestial couches where they can lie side-by-side forever, feet sticking up lazily in the air. Or maybe Nelson’s story was simply truncated when that butterfly came to him. I don’t know, and I never will.
So I give Nelson to you. He’s yours. You may dispose of him as your imagination sees fit. As for us, we merely buried him, mourned him, and shuffled on. And there was an end.
The Butterfly
With Sophie it had been different. With Sophie it had happened all at once. Life had suddenly decided that she had overstayed her welcome, and had quickly and quietly shown her to the door. One day she just had to be taken in to the vet’s, and there was an end. Simple.
Nelson took his time. He’d been growing worse every day for months. More than worse, he’d been growing deader – the closest thing to a zombie I have ever seen. The rancid stench of demise hung over him at all times, like a butterfly beating its wings just before settling on a leaf. It was about a week before I began my second year at PA that the butterfly finally settled on Nelson.
His last car ride was the first where he wasn’t eager to get in. Perhaps he sensed what was waiting at the other end of that ride, or perhaps he was merely too ancient and weary to bound furiously into the car anymore. Eventually Dad was forced to pick his faithful greyhound up and gently lift him into the back.
At the vet’s, everything grew quiet, as though someone had twisted a dial and turned the volume of the world down. People spoke in hushed tones, and no noise filled the air but the subdued hums and buzzes of a medical facility. The nurse softly checked Nelson’s records before taking him into the small white room, accompanied by my parents and me.
She left us alone with him for a time. We stroked his nearly-lifeless fur endlessly. He was trembling. He tried to hide in corners of the small white room. Dad assured him that he’d been such a good boy, that he’d tried so hard to please us. Mom told him that he was going to go race with Sophie again among the clouds. I couldn’t say much.
The nurse came in again and asked if we were ready. We were, but Nelson wasn’t. He kicked and struggled as she attempted to shave the patch of his leg where she was going to administer the shot. She said it would be better if he lay down, so a thick pine-green rug was procured. Nelson had no interest. We had to force him down – gently, yet we forced him. Then he kicked and struggled his way back up. We forced him down again and he kicked and struggled his way back up again. The nurse resorted to a sedative, which she gave Nelson as soon as Dad had a firm hold on him. Then, claiming that the sedative would take ten or fifteen minutes to take effect, she left.
It would be clichéd to say that those were the longest ten or fifteen minutes of my life. All the same, I was amazed when, in the car on the way home, Dad confirmed that they really had been only ten or fifteen minutes. But perhaps it is not so surprising: we were all thinking and functioning in slow motion.
All except Nelson, who was panting heavily by now, eyes darting wildly around the walls and floor of the small white room, seeking some method of escape. Mom said at least once during the ten or fifteen minutes that he was no longer right in the head, that he might not even recognize us anymore, and I don’t know what to think of that. I do know, however, that even the sanest animal’s mind is addled once in a while by terror, and I have never seen terror so vivid as Nelson’s then.
He fought on. Even though we continued to caress and coo, and even though the sedative was beginning to iron his very rumpled nerves smooth, he fought on. He managed to insert his large greyhound form into the space between a wooden bench and the small white wall behind it, and he would not come out. We moved the bench out and slid the rug underneath him, and here he stayed for the rest of his life.
Mom and I hung back, but Dad was the hero. When Nelson finally relaxed, it was in a position I will never forget. Dad had been sitting on the ground and hugging him. He leaned into Dad, who was forced to lie back and rest his head on my leg. Nelson was now reclining sideways against and partially on top of Dad. That was, I think, the last sign of love that Nelson ever received: the last sign that his masters cared about him and were grateful to have him.
Then the nurse returned. Now Nelson was half-asleep, eyes looking out sluggishly upon the small white room. I like to believe he was at peace, but I suspect he felt more like a gladiator whose opponent has just knocked his shield from his grasp. Nelson was defenseless, and he offered no resistance when the nurse finally delivered the shot.
Unconsciousness overtook Nelson, and within another moment, he was dead in my father’s arms.
And do I think that he really is racing with Sophie among the clouds now? That those two old lovebirds, separated for six years by Sophie’s death, have now been reunited and will be together for eternity?
I don’t know. These days, I am uncertain that there is a Heaven, and thus uncer-tain that there is by extension a Dog Heaven. Maybe Nelson and Sophie have been reunited – maybe there are celestial couches where they can lie side-by-side forever, feet sticking up lazily in the air. Or maybe Nelson’s story was simply truncated when that butterfly came to him. I don’t know, and I never will.
So I give Nelson to you. He’s yours. You may dispose of him as your imagination sees fit. As for us, we merely buried him, mourned him, and shuffled on. And there was an end.