The Last Day
On the last day, she came up to my office one last time. I heard her slowly coming up the stairs and then stop in the hallway, catching her breath. She looked around the corner at me and then settled herself — not on her bed in the usual spot under the window, just adjacent to my desk on the carpet.
On the last day, she didn’t run down the stairs to bark at a truck that pulled up to the house, but she stood up where she was and gave them 2 good barks that said, “Hey buddy, I know you’re here. I’m an old lady, but you better not try anything.”
On the last day, on tentative legs, she stuck her snout out the car window and snoofed up the smells. We were on the freeway, so I imagine it was a combo of dry summer trees, car exhaust and a hamburger and fries someone was eating while driving.
On the last day, she decided she didn’t want anymore Greenies.
On the last day, as we waited in the exam room in the vet’s office, I crouched down and she stuck her head between my knees for one last good, long neck scratch. And left eye boogers on my jeans.
On the last day, I got home and had a late lunch at my desk. Just a turkey and cheddar sandwich on wheat. I broke apart the last two bites with just a sliver of turkey on them. But I was alone, there was no one there waiting, no one to share it with.