doogie has died

I skipped half of class today. I drove up to Springboro. Mom was in tears. We went to the Veterinarian’s Office. They took us to a room where Doogie was being held. He was laying on several blankets. He looked up at us with excitement in his eyes, tail wagging fiercely. He couldn’t move his lower parts. “It wasn’t a stroke,” the doctor told us, “but an infarction in his nerves. It paralyzed him, but he isn’t in any pain.” It came on suddenly and without warning. Mom said, “I just let him out to go the bathroom, and when I turned around, I saw him collapse and start crying.” We all held him and petted him. Fed him treats. The doctor came in when we were ready and explained what would happen. “We’re injecting him with barbiturates. We’re giving him an extreme overdose. It will stop his breathing, and eventually it will stop his heart. It will take about ten to thirty seconds. He won’t feel any pain at all.” He re:emphasized that we are not doing this to Doogie but for Doogie. He has lived a long, enjoyable life, three years past his life expectancy. We all held him as the doctor shaved part of his leg and injected the drug. Doogie flinched for a few moments, then slowly went limp. I held his head in my hands. Mom started crying. Then Amanda. And Dad started crying, too. Doogie’s eyes shut and his body went still. The doctor had the stethoscope over Doogie’s chest; he pulled back, looked at us, said in a quiet voice, “His heart has stopped.” I leaned over Doogie, held his head in my hands, kissed him gently between the eyes. Tears crawled down my cheeks as I told him, over and over, “I love you, I love you, I love you…” Leaving the room was the hardest thing in the world. Knowing I would never see him again. I had to force myself to walk. I was the only one who wasn’t sobbing horrendously, so I drove home. Mom went to bed. Amanda went shopping. Dad talked on the phone. I stood outside and played with a stick, the memories of my little buddy flashing before my eyes. Thirteen years with that tyke. I remember when he was a baby, running around and nipping at us, barking and playing. I shared my meals with him. He slept beside me at night. We watched television together. And now he’s gone. Standing outside, playing with the stick, I fought off tears. I walked around the house, and I saw his little doggy-igloo sitting on the back porch. We got it for him for Christmas. He never got to use it. That was, and forgive me, Rebecca, for using a cliché, “the straw that broke the camel’s back.” The tears just came. Choking, painful tears. My throat went dry. My eyes bulged. My cheeks bloated red. I went inside and took several deep breaths. Tried to eat. Couldn’t. I decided to go back to school. Catch a few more notes in my early week class. I needed to get out of the house. I’m doing okay with it now, as I sit in my dorm room, but I know that when I go back home this weekend, the pain will return. 

I won’t have anyone running to greet me as I walk inside. 

I won’t have anyone to cuddle with as I watch movies. 

I won’t be able to listen to him snoring as I fall asleep on the couch. 

He’s gone.