My sick dog and his fat little compatriot busted out of the Harwood Prison on Saturday evening, right around 6:45. I was on-call and unaware that the gate had been left open and I had let them out to do their business and then, right before I had determined that a shower would feel good, I went to the back door to let them in and I discovered that the gate had been left open by someone (not me).
I panicked. I threw some pants and shoes on and grabbed my wallet and drove around the neighborhood for an hour or so, intermittently stopping at intersections and tweeting some whistles. I saw no shadowy dog shapes flitting across my field of vision, I heard no howls at the moon (or at other dogs). I felt absolutely nothing.
I went home.
***
Before Sunday passed, Meagan and I put up six cardboard signs on telephone poles. The signs explained that I had lost two dogs. One was a boxer-mix named Louie, wearing a red bandanna, of brindle color, who was seven years old (and sick with a bump on his neck). The other dog was a beagle named Oliver, overweight, black-tan-white-colored.
Before Sunday had expired, I had had a telephone call from a woman saying that she'd seen the two, running together (for some reason, I see this in slow-motion, Louie's tongue flip-flapping in the breeze, his muscles flexing, and Oliver panting along) down Harwood towards Campbell Road, a busy road.
I went to sleep on Sunday, on-call (with a world of other thoughts weighing my melon down) thinking about my doggies and hoping that they were safe and also that they had not harmed another animal or, God forbid, a person, a small child.
Sunday expired.
***
Bright and early today, Monday, I got a call on my cell phone that I didn't answer. I didn't recognize the number; I wasn't about to answer it. I'd had some really odd dreams the night before and I feared that some small part of them might have been prophetic. I didn't answer then, but I listened to the voice-mail when I got to work and had a moment to myself. It was the cracked voice of an older woman. She said that she'd seen the signs that we'd posted and that she had seen the boys running down Campbell towards Interstate-696. Oy-fucking-vey.
"Well, I live on Brockton, and we were outside taking pictures of my granddaughter before her dance and I saw the two dogs--one had a red bandanna--right in front of the house, going down Campbell to 696."
In my mind, I saw the "going down Campbell" phrase as a shadowy mass that one may see on a PBS television show in which they show maps of, say, Alexander the Great's sign-knock over Asia Minor or the Nazis' subjugation of their nearest neighbors. Just a spread of ownership. And I thought to myself, Just be good, boys. If ye have to be bailed out of doggy-jail, just don't have bitten anyone, or anything. And I prayed that to God, too.
And, like I had been thinking all along, I amended this: And also? Please do have not bitten a police officer.
Because, you see, on a Saturday night, who else will cage a loose dog? But a police ossifer. I just prayed that Lou had not bitten one.
He hadn't. Nor had his sidekick.
***
They were in the dog-pound all along. For damn-near forty-eight hours.
***
During that forty-eight? I fretted that one or both may have bitten someone or mauled a child or killed another animal. During that forty-eight, I worried that they may be dead, slammed by a car on Campbell, or wherever that had run. I was secretly-pleased that I wouldn't have to give Lou the needle myself. Sure, lack of closure would suck, but would it suck as much as having to take your kid to the doc and watch him die? During that forty-eight, I missed the hell out of the both of them, even though Lou loves garbage and Oliver has no inkling of potty-training. During that forty-eight, I was pleased to see Meeg's cats exploring the whole of the house (except my bed--no way). During that forty-eight, I missed the hell out of them.
***
We have them back, now. The cats are back in their prison, the silent prison, the prison I learned to care a whit for. Fifty-five dollars later, of which I paid none (Meeg didn't leave the gate open), the boys are back. Oliver is Oliver; he'll always just be the fat little impervious fuck. Lou is a different story. I know this shit has been coming for awhile, but I just cannot fucking stand his labored breathing. It kills me to hear and it kills me to see. It's almost a comic snore...but it ain't. It just isn't. The kid snores 'cause the kid has tumors in his throat constricting his fucking breathing. There is not a fucking fucking fucking thing I can do about it. Except for one thing....
***
Earlier tonight, Meagan said, "Well, at least Louie got to have one last adventure." I may not have the words exactly right. But, yes. His last adventure. Do you know how much that tears at me? Do you know how much his snore-breath fucking tears at me? It does. A ton. A whole hell of a lot. I'm thinking he has, like, a week or two to live. Or...a week or two before I pull the needle-trigger. Have it pulled.
He is not happy. But, sometimes?! He is! =)
He is not happy. He is happy! He is not. He is happy! He is not. He is dying.
***
I can't do it. I told him earlier today, "Louie? You have to let me know. If you don't, I won't be able to do it."
Intellectually, I know that he's going. (I could have so many more graphic connotations, there, but why? I have them in my head and they spring to the ready every time I think about the end for him. I know they're defense mechanisms...at least I think they are.)
Humor. Don't leave home without it. Especially if your best buddy for near-seven years (too short) is breathing like a five hundred-pound Wop hit man named Skinny. 'Cause it ain't funny. Never has been, never will be.
***
I feel the boy--Luigi, Louie, Lou, King Louis--is suffering. I don't want that. I can't have that. What is a father supposed to do? Make sure his son is getting a better life--either here or in the Hereafter. Amen.
***
I'm still undecided. But each lurch of his breath brings me closer to a conclusion.
***
As a side note: I'm on the couch typing, sitting across from Louie, lying in the armchair. (Yes, dying bring some privileges.) Lou's head is cocked to his right, and the red bandanna is visible just over the black of the arm of the chair. Though I hear his labored snore-breath, I see his eyes. I am not a psychic, but I'll be damned if I didn't see quite a bit of Death in his brown eyes.
***
Calgon. Take me away!!!
Seemingly every commercial is a political one. We have the Elephants blasting the Asses and we have "back-room deals" and "no jobs" screeching at us every time we choose to hit the ON button.
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