Page 102 - What They Did to the Kid

90 Jack Fritscher

As soon as I arrived home, as if she’d been waiting for me, Brownie
died.
My poor little dog. Asleep forever. Sometimes when I was five
or six or ten, I forgot you with a small boy’s carelessness. Many’s the
time I buried my tears in your fur, laying my head on your warm
and curly side. Sitting those last afternoons, reading, with you lying
in the cool ground-cover of my parents’ back yard. You lifted your
head, looked at me, and rested your nose on your paws. Nearly four-
teen years old. Ninety-eight in human years.
Finches and butterflies flew around the still pair of us. What a
lovely afternoon was the last afternoon. I put my bare foot on your
left forepaw. You looked at me and smiled, yawned, and put your
nose down on my toes. I touched your head and said, “Such a good
girl. You’re such a good dog.”
She was in no pain, but she would not eat. Last night I put my
forehead to her forehead and said, “Whoever you are in there, I’ll
take care of you. I’ll protect you. I’ll keep you easy. You’re still here,
honey dog.”
Starting on this somber little journey, where goes a little dog’s
soul? Moving inexorably to the inevitable. Soon no more cold wet
nose resting forepaws on my mattress edge each night. You love me.
Only you love me. No more being watched as we eat until the last
fork is set down on the last plate, and you stand up for your turn.
Your last night on earth.
My little dog died last night. I sat with her, breathing heavy
and staring at me until 3 AM, finally falling asleep until at 4:30
she called out in four rising cries: mmm, Mmmmm, MMMmm,
MMMM! I bolted up and held her, lay with her, comforted her,
falling asleep together, knowing in the morning we’d have to decide
something, falling deep asleep on the floor, holding her, waking at
seven with my father, kneeling next to me holding her, rousing me.
Brownie? Brownie? She was dead. Still warm to my touch, kiss-
ing her, holding her, until my mother came with a red wool blanket
and we all knelt around her, crying, stroking her familiar curves, our
fingertips touching in her fur. “Our little girl is gone.”
Her shoulders were still warm, her paws still so soft and tender.
Her eye caught the light, but she was not looking at me.

©Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved
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