Wednesday, March 5, 2008

All you can really do, when your dog of 15 years lies in a heap next to you, his belly distended, liver consumed by cancer, tail still given to miraculous wagging, is be there. You can drape a doggie sweater over him, ply him with treats, pet his head a hundred times, but the bitter truth is these things are, at best, creature comforts in the truest sense.

It’s a strange dynamic because the dog is physically repulsive, with the smell of decay seeping out of him. He’s deaf, partially blind, ready to fall apart at the word go, and yet it doesn’t matter. He was raised for his company and now, in the final stretch, your company is all that’s requested of you. It’s an elegant accounting, a final balance paid in full without a second thought.

I’ve been fortunate in that this interaction has been limited to animals. There will come a time, though, when that won’t be the case, and you wonder whether an unintended benefit of pet ownership is a kind of primer for when people pass. You can bring all you want and say what needs to be said, but for the first time since kindergarten, attendance counts for everything.