There are details in death, and they're dry, they stick to you, the muted colors, unsaturated in the coolness of dawn, and they’re dirty, and for the time being, harmless. They’re not horrible details but they’re salient. The details of life, the memory of life events, on the other hand, are brightly coloured, textured with hope and fondness, they’re dreams in the heat nearer the sun, all
Yes, a dear family member and friend of mine died. He was once my dog. And sure, there are those that would deny me my feelings and tell me the kinship was one-sided and my personification laughable. And without referencing the cold ignorance these blind and uninspired individuals use against my sentiments, I do in another sense agree that the significance of bond between me and my old dog was probably more one-sided than mutual. Grizzle was perfectly aloof at most times; probably the most content of all dogs I’ve ever known. Although in his youth he was a hellion, it was still all based on his beautiful canine simplicity. He would hop the fence countless times and bring home garbage--- and the odd time whole carcasses of mule-deer and antlers that he tore down from some bastard’s garage--- probably the same bastard that gave him anti-freeze when he was 8. He almost died that year but a vodka intervienous drip kept him drunk for 3 days and provided the perfect antidote for the sweet and toxic drink.
Sometimes I’d go out and lie in the snow in the back yard and look up at the night's wintery sky, Grizzle would rarely greet me with a bounty of enthusiasm, but eventually he’d make his way over and sit down beside me before he’d promptly manoeuvre himself, completely collapsing against me, leaning right up against my side. Deep eye contact was rare but when it was made it was heartfelt and loving.
Grizzle slowly broke down. His arthritis, cysts and cataracts attached themselves to his body and never let up. His shoulder blades scraped against each other when he walked. He hobbled and limped. He was mostly deaf and half-blind. Yet he handled these afflictions with his faultless dog wits. He battled in a way only nonhumans can, without sentimentalizing and without agonizing. If he had to get up, even though at the end he barely could, he’d struggle in spurts until the moment when the series of actions were just right, until they worked—if they never worked and he couldn’t get up, he’d wait some more, until the next struggle. If he lost his balance he’d fall, plainly and without complaint. And then, when he found it necessary he’d try his best to get back up--- everyday struggling without complaint or knowledge of complaint.
In the final moments, after all the liver-treats and proclamations of his grandeur and importance were made his veins proved too thin for the home-called doctor to hit so he was poked 7 times before the euthanol was properly injected; stuck seven times, in one of the puncture wounds the blood swelled under his shaven arm. Grizzle struggled, wounded and displeased his eyes white and cloudy. On the second to last injection some euthanol was accidentally administered and Grizzle folded to the floor, not dead but mercifully, medicinally paralyzed. On the final attempt, after the two front legs were shaved and found to be useless (thin veins), the Doctor shaved the hind right leg, a proper vein was found, and the death serum circulated. Grizzle died at
