1 Week Ago

I need to remember this ...

Usually, on this day, I would have dropped by on my way home from work to lure Chico off his loveseat and move the footstool away from the couch so he wouldn’t be able to get back up there; otherwise, the girl who cleans the house on Thursdays would be unable to do any cleaning within a 3-foot radius of the couch because, quite frankly, Chico wouldn’t allow it.

(He did like to pretend he was ferocious, that dog.)

On this particular day, however, The Lovely does not have physical therapy, so she tells me she will be home in time to do the furniture-rearranging, and for me to meet her there at 3:30 p.m. From there, we will go eat and perhaps shop for a bit while the cleaning girl does her thing.

So, about 3:25 p.m., I head over there. The garage door is open, so instead of my usual grand entrance through the front door, I go bounding through the garage, past the entryway and through the kitchen. Before I get to the hallway, I see her sitting there, on the floor. She is wearing jeans and a rugby shirt with blue and orange horizontal stripes and a white collar, and she looks up at me, and I can tell that something is wrong.

“Chico died,” she says, and I take three steps toward her and drop to my knees, next to her. She has wrapped the dog in his light-brown blanket with horsies on it (I am quite certain his Grandma Margaret made it for him ... or maybe for one of the other “grandkids”), and she is rocking him, just a little.

I have dreaded this moment for the past few years now, feared that it would happen while the dog was under my care: Some random household accident, perhaps, or a sudden dart into the path of an oncoming car (they always drive too fast on this street). And how would I tell her? What if it was somehow my fault?

And then I worried about how he seemed to be having more trouble getting around, his old legs frail and stiff, sometimes — so painful that he now needed “landing pads” to get up and down the steps of the front porch. (She put seat cushions out for him; those seemed to do the trick.)

Other times, I have wondered if, when the time came, she would be able to make that decision. Could she ever let him go, as long as there was the slightest chance that it wasn’t his time?

And then there was the fact that, in the event something happened to her before something happened to him: I was Chico’s legal guardian. I was the one she entrusted to take care of her dog.

(Is there any greater love than that? I think not!)

: )

I want to comfort her, but now I have tears running down my cheeks, too. I want to say something profound, something helpful, but all I can whisper is, “Oh, my gosh,” over and over.

His eyes and mouth are open, but his eyes are kind of a flat black instead of having their usual light. I rub his head, and it occurs to me later that this is the first dead body I have ever touched, that shortly after death. His fur feels soft, as always, but he feels cooler than usual.

“He must be gone,” I say softly, “or else he’d be growling at me.”

We both laugh through our tears at that, for we know it’s true.