We are not ready
By Laura McHale Holland
Little B wags his tail as we walk into the room. Rain pummels the pavement outside, but B is bathed in warm, incandescent light; sedated; feeling no pain. I move a few throw pillows aside so we can sit on the couch. The vet hands him to me. Our little dog at the end of his road.
He relaxes into my lap as tears roll down our faces. The vet explains what is about to happen, asks if we are ready. Our fingers are all over his white hair, massaging, patting. His fine hair recently clipped to perfection. We look into his round black eyes and bid him farewell: good-bye, Baby B, little doggie, best, best dog. good-bye, dear buddy; we love you; we’ve always loved you and we always will; good-bye. We murmur on until the sobs choke off our voices.
I nod to the vet to proceed. The poison flows, and our Little B is gone far too soon. We stay, my grown daughter and I, holding what is left of the tiny Maltese who has been part of our family for 13 years. We stay, suspended, as rain pounds the roof. We stay for a long time. We are not ready for this.