A Dog’s Death 1

A Dog’s Death

Get up. Just get up, one more time.

Finley was dying, but if he felt it or knew it was coming, the old hound never once made

a sign of it. At least, he never did it in the way that Abby’s grandparents had, with their raspy

grievances of aches or wracking, bloody coughs that cancer had brought them five years apart.

She had just been a teen at the time, so the deaths stuck in her head as some kind of template for

how death had to look.

Now that she was nearly half their final ages, Abby watched as Finley limped his way

across the bedroom to the food bowl and wobbled like a table with loose leg joints whenever she

took him outside on the leash, but if he suffered, he suffered without a single complaint.

“Come on,” Abby said, for the fourth time that night, waiting for Finley to come to the

door. It was late. She was tired. The dog must have been exhausted, considering he stopped and

started those four times from the bedroom to the hallway alcove. He’d take a few steps and then

stop, like he was trying to figure out how to move without lifting his tumor riddled legs.

Her neighbor had caught sight of the dog the week prior and made the case to put Finley

down. Merciful, that way, instead of letting him suffer. But Finley kept getting up and kept

eating, so Abby merely smiled and nodded, accepting the advice as a prescription she already

knew she’d be filling out later. Just not today.

Dogs died. It was part of the deal you made when you picked one up and named it, when

you taught it its name.

 A Dog’s Death 2

“Come on, Finley,” she said, holding the leash out. Last night had only taken three calls

to urge him over to the door. Perhaps she should have been using that as a measure to count

down the days.

Finley met her finally at the doorstep and wavered just a bit as he caught his breath, white

peppered cheeks puffing each exhale. White had taken over the pepper gray on his face and paws

the last few years. Abby hesitated with the leash, then just opened the door to let him step down

slowly onto the porch. The light flickered, but it put out enough light that she could see where

Finley went in the yard. His running days were done, though Mason might have argued

otherwise.

Mason had tolerated the dog, being more of a cat person, or so he said. God, Mason hated

having to keep the door latched when he first moved in. Their first fight had been about the damn

door and about making sure it was latched if they had the storm door open on the inside. Finley

had figured out when he was just a puppy that he could punch the handle open. Abby hadn’t

wanted to come home and find Finley in the neighbor’s yard, or under somebody’s tires, just

because Mason forgot to at least lock the door.

It seemed silly in hindsight, as Finley grew into his role as couch potato, and Mason and

Abby had found more serious things to argue about. Even three years after Mason moved out,

Abby found herself leaving the storm door unlocked. She was almost glad he had moved two

states away, along with his new wife, so he wouldn’t be there to laugh at her for it.

She walked slowly behind Finley, watching him sway with each step as he left the stone

walkway and off onto the lawn. The more he moved, the less stable his legs appeared. He had

been given about four months at his last vet visit two months ago, but Abby realized four months

had been incredibly generous.

 A Dog’s Death 3

Just keep getting up. It was her mantra, the closest thing to a prayer she had, every time

the dog sat down, or laid down to sleep, or struggled to get on his feet. Just don’t stop. Get up.

People thought less of the death of a dog than the death of a man. Abby had seen people

die, in nursing homes or hospitals. There was almost a theatrical way they died and it caught up

everyone around the dying, making them part of the performance. People never died like dogs,

who lingered in the human lives around them, even as a shadow, in a way people didn’t have to

or wouldn’t. Dogs died simply, like a last breath of air leaving behind a bag of bones. They were

here and then gone.

Abby had almost called Mason that night at the clinic, when the vet broke the

unsurprising news that the lumps were malignant and she had to make up her mind. She had no

idea what to do. She couldn’t even ask the dog what he wanted.

People made it sound easy. Abby had nearly agreed right then, but Finley didn’t make it

easy.

Finley just kept getting up. Day after day, he got up slower. He ate a little less. Slept

more and more. But he still moved and ate. He wasn’t done yet. That was as much of an outside

insight as Abby would get. She trusted it more than she trusted her guilt or her doubt. He told her

that way, not yet.

Squatting, the dog did his business on the grass, unable to even think about raising his

legs. He wavered and then sat down just a fraction of an inch further up. His shoulders sagged.

Abby watched him and waited—for something.

How exactly did you know when a dog was done?

 A Dog’s Death 4

Part of her then wanted to let him go, in the literal sense. She wouldn’t drag him back

inside. She’d let him have what he always wanted: to run off, wander the small world that made

up their neighborhood. But he sat there. He stayed.

Just get up. One more time. Just one more.

“Let’s go in,” she said.

She started back to the stone path and Finley’s dark eyes followed her. There was a

moment where the old dog didn’t move, maybe didn’t even breathe, like he had become fixed in

that spot by sudden roots. If a dog thought any real thoughts, Abby could not imagine what he

might have been thinking then.

The moment passed and Abby watched Finley shifting his weight, mindful of his leg,

until he was facing her. He heaved himself upright and his hindlegs nearly caved, but he

managed to propel himself forward, to follow her, back to the house.