On Wednesday, I sat on a tile floor on east Lakeway Road, my black pants covered in fur and my face streaked with tears.
My parents had already left the room.
My dad had declared with a trembling chin that he didn't want to stay for any part of what was to come.
My mom, determined to help my weeping father through whatever shape his grief took, went to the minivan to sit with him. He still doesn't know how to face his grief, or that it's OK to grieve openly and sometimes rawly.
I sat on the floor.
In front of me lay a panting, heaving, nearly blind Rottweiler/lab mixed mutt, eleven years and one month old, one hundred -six pounds, one hundred percent amazing.
His vitals don't give any insight to the sweet, mild dog who could hug, kiss and gaze away a girl's worst day with chocolate-brown eyes, an unending smile and an always-wagging tail stub.
I've known some amazing and kind animals.
Charlie was the best of them.
**
For nearly fifteen years, I've been haunted by my cowardice.
When our husky, Frisky, was dying, my brother and I loaded her into our parents' minivan (our parents said they couldn't bear to come), and we took her to the same clinic on Lakeway.
Barely seeing through my tears, barely breathing through my sobs, I wrote a check.
And then, as a coward, when the vet asked whether I wanted to stay with that sweet girl ... I didn't.
I left.
My thoughts of her fear and loneliness in those last minutes has kept me awake in the intervening years, and they moved me to vow that when any future pet was near an end that had to be medically assisted, I would sit with them, soothe them, thank them for their companionship, and assure them they were not alone in those strange, frightening last moments.
So there I sat, on that tile floor, sobbing over Charlie and thanking God that he created animals for our companionship.
I listened to his last breaths.
I hugged him as his heart stopped.
I stayed with him after, saying a long and tearful goodbye, finally unclipping his collar and leaving a black-and-white shell in the room where, a few minutes before, a sweet soul had been carried on a stretcher.
**
We don't deserve dogs, and none of us deserved Charlie.
He was the calmest, mildest, sweetest creature that could have ever wandered in to The House on Teak Street.
He like lying on (& eating) grass. He liked walking to and fro under low branches that tickled his back. He liked sniffing the air and listening to birds. His lab ears perked up an any new or unfamiliar thing. He liked gnawing on bones and having his belly rubbed.
Licking was his love language.
He loved women and mistrusted any man who wasn't Dad. He was one of Dad's constants through heart attacks, brain injuries, surgeries and uncertainties. He was the first creature who greeted Dad in the mornings, and he often followed him to the foot of the stairs at night.
Mom was his favorite person, and he closely guarded her when she came home from long trips — or when she was downstairs, folding laundry.
He was my baby boy, my buddy, my friend, my Sweet Charlie. We took walks around the neighborhood and attempted walks at Cam-plex Park and the lakes, but getting there required car rides, and he very definitely disliked car rides.
Groomers loved him.
Lodgers had to earn the right to not be wuffed at.
He wasn't sure what to think of other animals, except his next-door dog-friend, Boots, and his old and since-departed cat-friend, Tux.
His predecessor, Scooter, hated him, but Scooter hated everyone and was, in return, hated by most everyone.
People don't deserve the trust and love that sweet dogs give.
Charlie was happy, silly, loving and pure — the very, very, very best of what dogs can be.
We didn't deserve him, but we sure are grateful that we got to have him.
The best good boy ever. The best one-pawed hug-giver ever. The best insistent kisser ever. The best smiler ever.
The best. Ever.
We loved you, Charlie.
I loved you, and I'll always be thankful for you.
