Two walks.

Consort came to bed, waking me up. A bleary glance at the alarm clock told me it was 4:50. I was about to launch into my patented “…why do you even go to the ‘Law and Order’ channel…” when he cut me off.

“I was dozing on the couch,” he whispered. “She kept getting up and I wanted you to get some sleep.”

Even though Consort is the only male in the house, I knew exactly which “she” he meant. For the past year, the dog had been getting up every night to either pee or vomit, sometimes both. A year ago, she would get up once a night. Now, she might need to go out three or four times between midnight and six.

“How many times?”

“Five? Maybe six. I stopped counting,” he said with a sigh and fell into bed.

I lay on my back and stared into the darkness. After a minute, I heard the sound of the dog’s paws scrabbling on the wooden floor in the living room. She was trying to stand up. She needed to go out again. I raced to the foyer, deactivated the alarm, and raced to the back door to let her out. I looked at the dark grey sky and heard the sound of our dog retching in the back yard. A minute later, she stumbled in and went back to her bed. I sat at the kitchen table.

A year ago, when this had become an issue, I had gotten her checked for stomach and intestinal blockage and for diabetes. Many expensive tests later, we determined there was nothing causing the multiple trips outdoors at night. I tried only feeding her in the morning, which made her miserable and panicky, not to mention even more prone to eating trash. I tried cutting off her water after four PM, but she still needed her trips outside every night. Her back legs would randomly give out, which a vet informed me was due to a degenerative disc near her pelvis. What no one could tell me was if this was causing her pain.

She didn’t act as if it caused her pain, but how could a degenerating disc not cause pain? I could run her through another full battery of tests, with the accompanying dazzling bills, but she is terrified of the vet and would probably need to be sedated for anything diagnostic, which they might not want to do for an elderly dog. And at the end of the testing, history had shown we could come back with nothing more illuminating than “…she’s old, here are some pills to try. If these don’t work, we can try another group of pills. But first, let’s bring her back in for some blood-work…”

I couldn’t remember the last time I had slept more than three hours at a stretch. Consort has a lovely job which he enjoys tremendously, but the commute is brutal – several hours a day if the freeway Gods are angry -- and he needs his rest. I couldn’t ask him to do the night-shift with the dog more than once a week so it was going to be my job for as long as I could stand it.

I sat in the kitchen, watched the sun rise, and thought. Every once in a while, I would gaze over at the dog on her bed. She didn’t get back up. At seven, before I went in to wake up Daughter, I went into our bedroom and shook Consort awake.

“I think I’m putting her down.”

Instantly awake, Consort just took my hand and rubbed it. I could hear Daughter starting to wake up. I could also hear the dog starting to try to stand, and slipping as her back legs failed.

It was now Thursday morning. I set the appointment for Friday morning. After making the call, I looked over at the dog asleep on her nest and made a decision. I got her well-worn leash, jangling its hardware in a familiar summons.

“Walkies?” I said loudly.

It took a couple of calls, but my voice cut through her sleep and her hearing loss and she looked up, pleased. It took a while, but we got out to my car. We had stopped trying to put her in the SUV months ago when she misjudged the door height, fell out and cut her head. Now she was having a hard time simply climbing into my sedan.

Consort worked from home that morning, so he joined us on our favorite hike. Years ago, when we first got her, the dog would bolt up the hill, one of us holding on to her leash and water-skiing behind her. Now, we moved at a pace best described as “Stately”. Her legs weren’t consistent, but she seemed content.

Consort and I talked. Was it honorable to wait to euthanize her until nothing gave her pleasure and we were absolutely certain she was in constant pain? Did the fact that she could enjoy the sun on her face mean her life still had meaning? Could I hold out sleeping in patches for what might be weeks, or months? It probably wasn’t years, because she was somewhere near the end of the natural life for her breed. Then again, I knew one of her ilk who lived to fifteen; was I prepared to spend years looking for cures, trying new treatments or being her nightly chambermaid?

While we talked, the dog had slowed down considerably. Frequently during the walk, she sat down. She would try to lie down but without her padded bed to soften the fall she would get stuck. We’d haul her up again, and she’d go a few more feet. The silence grew between our rhetorical questions.

I have had pets euthanized, and it’s dreadful, but it becomes infinitely worse when the decision isn’t clear-cut. We could continue what we were doing, and it’s pretty likely the dog would suffer before she died, if she wasn’t suffering already. But if we continued what we did, Consort would suffer, as would I. I’ve read enough about sleep deprivation to know that I was not working at my best; was keeping the dog alive putting Daughter in jeopardy every time I got behind the wheel? Was keeping the dog alive putting other people on the road in jeopardy? Even if I never hurt anyone physically, how many times had I snapped at Consort or Daughter out of nothing more than sheer grinding fatigue?

Was I keeping her alive so I didn’t feel like a bad person?

Was I euthanizing her for my own convenience?

She was a member of our family. I treated her as kindly and lovingly as I could and kept her needs in mind at every turn. But she was also a member of a family where the other living things had needs as well. Had I been a single woman, with few obligations, I might have made another choice.

We helped her back into the car. Exhausted, she leaned against the door and fell asleep.

____________________________


Monday, I got the call from the vet; her ashes had come back from the crematorium. Since the cat needed her vaccinations anyway, it made for a strange two-fer; yowling cat carrier in one hand, cardboard cube in the other. I noted the Cal-Pet crematorium had misspelled the dog’s name. I brought both of them home and tucked the box someplace discreet, away from Daughter’s relentless purview. Monday night, I told Consort of my plans. He asked if I wanted to wait for the weekend, so he could be with me.

I thought a moment before I replied. “If it’s all the same with you, I’d rather do it myself.”

Consort said, “Then, let me give you something.” He went to the top drawer of his bureau and brought out a fragment of green paper. He held it in the palm of his hand, and we both stared at it. It was about a quarter of a twenty dollar bill, ragged and torn.

“She ate the rest of this twenty the first year we had her. This is what I grabbed from between her teeth. I always swore I’d bury it with her. Maybe she can use it to pay the ferryman across the river Styx.”

_______________________________

It was perfect hiking weather, the sun peeking flirtatiously through the leaves and trees. This time, I walked the hike quickly. Around my wrist, I had the cord from the purple velvet bag which held the can of ashes. From a distance, I’m guessing people were talking about the woman hiking up the trail with the bottle of Crown Royal. I saw a few hikers on the way with dogs; I stopped and petted as many as I could.

We made it to the promontory which had always been our turnaround spot. I pried open the lid with my car keys and let her go. I put the strip of masticated money in the palm of my hand and blew hard. It floated off a few feet, got caught in some plants, and then tumbled down the hill.

I stood for a minute or so and then said, “Goodbye, Polly.”

I turned around and went home.