Jan 28, 2015
It’s the day. I wake up cold and stiff on my swag in the kitchen. I left the door open so Luca could get out. The headache has mercifully left the building.
I start thinking about what that knock on the door will feel like. They said between 3 and 5pm.
She leaves a message at 1030 saying their phones are down, and she will call back in an hour. I call back, again, and again, and again and its now 1230 (wearerunningoutoftime) (isitevenhappeningtoday)
I have a shower and start crying. Luca comes in sort of cry-howls at me. She has never done that before. I can’t tell if she is more worried by my upset, or her pain.
I gingerly handle the last chop and throw that flesh out the door – she is uninterested. We go through the war on drugs round 16.
I wanted to take her out for one last breakfast (wearerunningoutoftime) … she always did like eggs, and attention from passersby. Today she gets neither – unexcited by eggs and the hipsters fail to fawn. Cute dogs must be soooo 2012. I tell Luca when she leaves me I will compensate with a hamster with a lumberjack beard.
I go to pay and I’ve left my wallet at home. Of course I have. (wearerunningoutoftime)
I wanted to vacuum the house, to remove the small traces of her that will bring grief and daily reminders for me when she is gone, to pack all of her things so they can be spirited away by friends. The receptionist calls at 130 and says Erica can come out between 2 and 3pm. They use their quiet inside voices for these calls. I use my freaking out quietly trying not to start a panic inside a theatre about to burn down voice.
“They said it would be later, I’m just not quite ready, I just need an hour or so.” OK, she returns.
I pack her drugs up to donate back to low income people at the vet, and the beddings and the leads, friends will take them later.
I clear the spare room, set up a tarp and blankets and the special brocade fabric that a friend gave to me, to wrap her in for her final journey.
I pour a drink and coax her outside to the sun… she shuffles a bit and then moves back inside. I curl up next to her in foetal position on the kitchen floor and pat her while she naps.
I brace for the call, it seems to take ages. The phone rings, they are at my old address. 15 minutes reprieve.
The gentle knock. From there it’s a blur. Luca greets them as friends.
Erica treads in lightly – she is all concern, and efficiency seems to be the only thing holding her up – she is light as a feather. She tells me things I don't remember and asks if I want some time to say goodbye.
I hold Luca tightly and tell her how much I love her. And that it will be over. And thank you. Thank you for looking after me all these years. I say other things and then politely let the vet know its time to kill my best friend.
They sedate her first. Luca struggles against the sedation. I secretly cheer her resistance and feel conflicted. Then she is finally floppy. They put the other needle in as I berate myself for not having been able to look into her eyes as she left. I was holding her tight but I couldn't see her eyes at the point she was starting to fade into sedation. She is still conscious but no longer there. I wanted her to tell me it was OK and I was doing the right thing.
She is gone. They quiet-whisper and leave me to say goodbye to am empty stillwarmbodyshell.
Other things happen. I don't remember what they are. I carry her to the vets car and walk back to the house alone.