It’s a good thing I don’t take my evening stroll with a side order of stargazing. Nothing takes the flavor out of a good, clear midnight sky like the humming and beaming of neighborhood streetlights casting that standard-issue orange glow. But a quick walk never hurt anyone, and given its size, Town Pump Circle is perfect for the amusing late-night jaunt. 

Lucky was a great dog. Watching him die was one of the worst experiences of my life.

In his younger days, Lucky was a spry, if somewhat bashful, pooch. He was energetic and playful when his Dalmatian blood boiled, but maintained a cool reserve of the most sage of Labradors. Perhaps he was timid, or maybe it had to do with the abuse he suffered from a previous owner, but he never licked. Never. No hands, no faces. He would snuggle his face into yours if the mood struck him and you were within sniffing distance. Outside of that, he wasn't the most affectionate of dogs. Still, he always had a smile and an excited wag of his tail for me when I came home from school. That, of course, before turning over for his expected belly rub.

As he got on in years, he rarely left Mom's bed. The requisite health issues that follow most humans into old geezerdom all but literally snuck up on Lucky and caught him in the ass. In the past couple years Mom and I heard a lot of posterior gland this, tumor that, infection this, prescription that and blah-blah-blah from our esteemed pals in the veterinarian's office. They explained what they learned in mammal medical school, we nodded and pretended to understand and we did what we could afford for as long as we could. All the while, Lucky didn't seem to improve. His pills made him groggy. Up until the end, he would squat in total agony for 20 minutes at a time to pass small, murky, bits of stool. On good days, there was no blood. Small favors, right?

I like to believe our decision to put him down was two parts compassion and only one part finances. Sometimes, though, I'm never really sure. The pills could've kept him going another few months, maybe even a year. They were just too expensive. It didn't seem worth it, buying maybe a few more painful months. Hindsight definitely makes you feel like you didn't do enough, even if you did more than you could have. 

I choked on my emotions all the way to the vet. Mom did too. Our minds were made up. Lucky would not be coming home with us. "Do you want to go in with him, or should we just drop him off?" Mom asked softly.
"We should go in and be with him," I half-croaked, half-whispered.

I held it together until we were in the little exam room. But the longer we waited, the more things sank in. God created pets cause He knows how awful people can be. A pet is the truest companion, the definition of a best friend. A pet doesn't judge you, never talks shit about you, never betrays you (unless you consider an overzealous gnawing or mis-erected litter pan pyramid a betrayal). It's not that Lucky was these things for me. I loved him, but school kept me away most of the last four years. What hurt was that he was all of those things to Mom. Reeling from the recent loss of a human best friend and constantly struggling with financial hardship, a horror-movie childhood and a husband who walked out on her, Mom needed a reliable companion more than anything. Lucky had been that companion. But it came to this. Sure as Hell, life can and will deal you a shitty hand sometimes.

The nurse (are they still called that in the world of animal medicine?) said Lucky might convulse, groan or make otherwise erratic noises or movements after she injected him. Lucky did no such thing. I like to think that it was peaceful for him. Indeed, he looked more tranquil than he had in months as his breathing slowed and his eyes dulled. Mom and I held him and caressed him till we could no longer feel the gentle rise and fall of that pronounced belly I so many times scratched because he seemed to like it so much. It was a subtle, yet all too drastic, shift from living and breathing to limp and lifeless. I doubt I'll ever forget the look in his eyes. Emptiness that stretched into an eternity that I don't want to try to imagine.

I like to think it comforted him for Mom and me to be there. At one point Lucky was the pet of a five-member household, but Mom and I paid him the most attention. The nurse (?) asked if we wanted a paw print and a tuft of hair. Mom and I agreed that would be nice. We would've had him cremated and kept the ashes if we could've afforded it.  Then again, if we could've afford that, we might've been able to keep him alive longer. But as a human friend of mine might say, sometimes you have to give hindsight the "big gas face," and reassure yourself you did all you could for a beloved companion. And if nothing else, know that he knew he wasn't alone.

Lucky - 6/26/07. Rest peacefully, bud.