T.I.L. (part II)

(A song lyric triggered this memory recently and I wanted to write it down before I lost it again forever. It is not a fun memory, but it is lada.)

"It Wears Me Out"

I am seventeen. I am standing outside a house that belongs to a friend of a friend. It is unusual that I am here; we have never spent time alone together in the past and I surprised him by coming over rather randomly. (I suppose, like any teenager, I was just bored and did not want to be alone.) But he is friendly enough, so Travis and I are now sitting outside his house, chatting and wasting time leaning against the hood of my car in the sunshine.

I see in the distance a young boy running down the street and as I watch, the child sees us and veers in our direction. Curious, I ask Travis if knows the boy; he does not. The boy runs right up to us wearing an oddly pained expression on his small face. He offers a shy hello and then he mumbles something about a sick dog, gesturing in the direction from which he came. He asks us if it is our dog. It isn't, but we are concerned and tell him to show us where it is. As we are following the child back up the street, it occurs to me that the roles in this situation are strangely reversed from your typical episode of Lassie.

We see the beautiful black Labrador, lying on its side in the road. His fur is matted and bloody. He does not move as we approach, though he is still very much alive. He is whining in pain - banged up, hit by a car, left for dead. I draw near to him cautiously: weary of an injured animal but still feeling the instinct to reach out and give comfort. I sit next to him but do not extend my hand.

The young boy tells us that he has to go home - I think he is mostly just frightened. Travis is on his cell phone, desperately arguing with the operator for information about whom we should call for help. The operator cannot seem to be able to find the number to animal control.

I pet the dog. I am afraid to touch him because he is badly cut and scraped and must have internal injuries and I do not want to hurt him more. I gently rub the thin patch of glossy black fur between his eyes. He looks at me and blinks slowly with each stroke. I begin to cry.

Travis is pacing, cursing. He wants to fix the problem but he cannot. Animal control is saying that they will come by later, but we know later is too late. No one is coming to help.

The dog just stares at us. He is dying. I tell him that he is not alone, that I am so sorry, that the pain will stop soon. I do not say these things out loud; I try to convey them to him with my eyes as he stares at me and I hope he understands. He blinks again but I do not know what he is trying to say to me in response.

Blood begins to trickle out of his mouth. Travis and I are distraught. He is sitting next to me and we are trying to ease the dog with gentle touches. We are both speaking out loud now, babbling useless platitudes: it will be okay, just keep hanging on, don’t stop breathing.

And the dog dies. I feel ill. I am angry and frustrated but hoping I made passing easier for the poor creature. My heart hurts. I do not want to think about the family who loves this dog. The body is now just a body and I do not want to look at its emptiness. I walk away and leave it for animal control to come and collect at their leisure.

We walk back to Travis’s house. We are emotional but do not know what to say to one another - we are not close, he is only a friend of a friend, so it is an awkward moment. We mutter goodbyes and I get into my car. I make a three-point turn so I do not have to drive past the body on my way out of his neighborhood. I am crying all the way home.

I have never seen birth, but I have seen death.

101 Things to do (or don't) before you die - #26:
Do go bungee jumping.
Don't disparage Nixon more than necessary.

- lada doesn't like crying cause it only gets her wet