Mike Murray essay -- But Not Today

7 September 2009

But Not Today

-- by Mike Murray

No one had to tell her. The woman knew what she would eventually have to do. She had for months been observing his decline. At first, it had been mild. He was having a little more difficulty rising to a standing position; he was a little less peppy on walks. He was also a little less interested in play, a little more interested in sleep.

But he seemed otherwise fine. And so, for a time, she was able to wrap herself in the comfort of rationalization. Lucky was no longer a spring chicken, after all. Then, too, he had for years been less perky during the warm summer months. “He’ll bounce back,” she told herself, “once the season changes.”

But fall arrived, and its cool winds delivered no improvement. In fact, Lucky’s condition only worsened. The woman was slowing being forced to confront the truth. Lucky was not just “getting on in years.” His vitality was ebbing – at an ever-increasing rate. And it would never return. Her beloved companion, she finally admitted, was inexorably marching toward his “great reward.”

Once reconciled to reality, she vowed to do the right thing. She would not let Lucky suffer. She would observe him carefully; she would watch for signs of significant discomfort. Hard as it would be for her to let go of her best friend, she resolved not to selfishly prolong his life in order to avoid devastating her own.

When the prescribed medication failed to satisfactorily control his pain, or when he lost interest in eating or moving about, or when it became too difficult for him to “keep his hind legs” (even with a sling and her assistance), she would take Lucky on that final ride to the veterinarian’s office.

The woman and the dog had been inseparable for years. They were so close that they could practically read each other’s mind. And so the woman felt certain that Lucky would let her know when his time had come. She knew that she would understand, when he looked at her in that meaningful way.

And one morning, she thought that he had. Lucky’s lower eyelids drooped more than usual. His entire expression was one of profound weariness. He ate no food, drank no water. And he declined the invitation to go outside to relieve himself. This is it, she figured: The day that she had been dreading.

So she eased Lucky into her pickup truck and began the tortuous drive to the vet’s office. The woman fought the urge to sob, fearful that such a display would only make things harder for Lucky. And so she drove on in silence. But she could not completely calm the trembling in her shoulders. Neither could she stop the flood of tears that streamed down her cheeks.

As they approached a forested area that she and Lucky had frequented many times over the years, he stirred. Then he sat fully upright and raised his ears in excitement. A gleam returned to his eyes and he whined, pleading with the woman to stop.

She did, thinking Lucky in need of a “bathroom visit.” He descended from the truck’s high bench seat with an eagerness that had for months eluded him. As they strolled along the familiar path through the woods, Lucky stopped frequently – sniffing this and sniffing that. He “marked” often, spraying his scent atop the urine smells of animals who had preceded him. His tail swayed gracefully to and fro.

Then Lucky looked up at the woman – his eyes alert. He smiled, in that way that dogs do. She smiled back. And then she knew: This is not Lucky’s time.

The woman is no fool. She realizes that a momentary burst of energy and enthusiasm cannot alter the inevitable. One day soon, Lucky will have to keep his date with destiny. One day soon, she will again have to make the difficult drive. And on that day, there will be no reprieve. She will be forced, finally, to say goodbye.

But not today.