An Absent Mind(31)

I guess its Joey I’m upset with. Sure, he shows up a couple of times a week. But he lives less than ten blocks away and only stays for a few minutes. He spends more time with that damn dog than he does with his own father. The social worker downstairs said maybe he can’t face the thought that his father is dying. I frankly think he just doesn’t really care that much, and that this whole thing is cramping his style. He’d rather be out with his friends than be here with his family. I must say I am disappointed, more than disappointed.

The head nurse on Saul’s floor told me that he has been acting up at night, and they have been giving him some drugs to calm him down. I guess that’s okay, and maybe the drugs make whatever time he has more pleasant. He deserves that.





Joey





Day 242—Dog Day Afternoon


Mother has always hated him, and Florence claims Bernie is allergic to cats and dogs. So ever since Dad was admitted to Manoir Laurier, I have become Dugin’s guardian.

Let me get one thing straight: I’m no dog lover. But having shared that with you, I felt an obligation to take Dugin in, knowing how much he means to Dad.

They don’t let dogs into Manoir Laurier, even for visits. So if it’s a nice day and I can get away from my work for a while—which, I must admit, isn’t often—I take Dad out for a walk with Dugin. They still have a connection, that’s for sure. Even when Dad is in a foul mood or not totally with the program, his face lights up when he sees Dugin. And the feeling is obviously mutual. You can tell that by how Dugin drools and wags his tail.

What drives me crazy is the hair he sheds all over my black suede sofa. That’s where I usually start my pitch to the ladies—you know, a couple of glasses of chardonnay, some kissing and fondling, and then into the bedroom for the grand finale. At least that’s the way it used to be. Now the chicks look at the scuzzy gold hair and won’t go near the couch.

I ordered a new leather one from a discount outlet, but it won’t be here for another couple of weeks. And now it looks like it won’t really matter by then.

You’re probably asking yourself, why won’t it matter? Well, Dugin was vomiting a lot last week and didn’t seem to have much energy. So a few days ago, I took him down to Dr. Nelson’s office. He examined him and did some tests, blood work, and an X-ray. He called me the next day and informed me that Dugin has liver cancer.

I told Mom. She reacted like I had just mentioned I had a headache. And it didn’t play much better with Florence. Both of them told me I was nuts to worry about a mutt when Dad was going through so much. Maybe reality is they’re both feeling sorry for themselves for what they’re going through.

Regardless, I wasn’t going to let Dugin suffer, so I called Dr. Nelson and told him we all agreed—I was too embarrassed to tell him my mother and sister didn’t give a shit—that Dugin should be put down.

This afternoon, I took Dugin to Dr. Nelson’s. The receptionist showed us into a room with a table in the middle. Dr. Nelson came in a few minutes later. He reached down and placed both hands around Dugin’s face and told him he would be fine and then hoisted him onto the table. He asked me if I wanted Dugin buried or cremated. Good question. What would Dad want? Not that it really matters, I guess, because he won’t know anyway. Or will he? I often wonder how much, if anything, he does understand. Dr. Tremblay said even in his condition, maybe a fair amount. Not all the time, that’s for sure, but probably more than we think.

I told the doctor to have him cremated and give me back the ashes. When Dad goes, I’ll place the urn beside his at the cemetery. That’s what he would probably want.

Dr. Nelson started preparing the syringe. Dugin lay in front of me. I thought I saw him grimace for a moment, and then he stopped, almost as if he wasn’t going to let anyone know he was in pain. It was obvious he had been suffering quite a bit the past few days. I could see it in his eyes, which had turned a muddy yellow, and the way he could barely lift himself up on the sofa.

Dr. Nelson put his hand on my shoulder and told me to take whatever time I needed to say good-bye, and then he started toward the open door to his private office. I almost called out, “I don’t need any time; let’s get on with it.” Then I glanced down at Dugin, lying on his side, looking up at me. He seemed so alone, so frightened. “I’ll just take a few moments,” I told the doctor.

I plunked myself down on a chair beside the table. Somehow, Dugin pushed his bloated body toward me and turned his head so he was now facing me. I patted him a few times and then languidly stroked his soft mane, mumbling that we all loved him and would miss him, and that he would go to a better place.

I didn’t want to stop, knowing that by doing so I would be bringing his life to an end. Finally, and reluctantly, I called for Dr. Nelson. He came in and picked up the syringe and inserted the needle into a vein in Dugin’s leg.

Now I was stroking him with both hands. He moaned once and then whimpered, his eyes sad and glassy, and, I felt, fully aware of what was about to happen. Dr. Nelson looked over at me. I nodded quickly, knowing if I didn’t, I would lose my resolve. The doctor slowly pushed the plunger down, releasing the liquid. Moments later, Dugin’s body heaved one last time and his eyes closed. At least he won’t suffer anymore. I wonder if we can say the same about Dad.