KILLING LOVE
AND THE DEATH OF CLARK RECORD
(Author's note: There are no edits in tears.)
"You're doing the right thing," they all say. "It was time."
No doubt it was. But saying that is such bullshit. Right thing? Right time? Can they not hear themselves utter those saccharine cliches? Yet the anticipatory grief that I'd denied over the last ten days or so flooded away into clarity as I watched him struggle to the open door. He wanted out and into the cool air, he needed it, though he could no longer summon his legs to get him out that door to where it might surround him.
We watched just momentarily in useless hope and for dignity's sake that he might still succeed, that he might still prevail, before bending down to help him one last time to make his way out to the cool rough patio. There we'd laid a fine carpet for him to rest and to breathe that fresh rainy air. Yes, a fine carpet for our finest boy to lay down on for his final rest. There it was that he looked up at us, so tired, and that torpid realization came through the fogginess of our selfish denials that we "were there," that indeed we had arrived.
We'd arrived at Killing Love.
I mean where do you start?
His name was "Clark" - a silly name I suppose for a dog but one that summed up his happy go lucky goofiest "best friend in the world" ways. His fur was as white and as pure as his heart was. A pup of the friendly Scottish lines there was never anything nefarious or duplicitous about our boy Clark aside from his occasional stubborness at insisting on a treat when promised one, or that he watched the clock when it was time for his walk. (The boy kept a doggie wrist watch, no doubt) He'd traveled far with us. Way back to when as a wee lad he'd attended my mother's 80th birthday party much to Mom's delight, and later on traveled the Oregon Coast to visit my elderly father for Thanksgiving. Clark was family. He was always up for a ride in the car, and always up for a good game of a race around "ha-cha" chase in the backyard with our granddaughters.
He did have a running feud with Amazon.com and UPS as to who was better at notifying us when a package was at the door.
(Obviously, it was Clark.)
He was utter goodness. He was joy. He was love.
So how could I do this to him?
How could I make that final choice, that final call in favor of his death? How could I kill him who was so dear to our hearts? How could I kill this beautiful soul who would take his torn stuffed toys to his mother, my wife, and beseech her to repair them with his soulful eyes?
I don't know.
I mean it isn't like we haven't done it before - that is euthanized a dog. It isn't like we hadn't already experienced that beyond loathsome task that wrenches guts and questions your sense of what is or isn't moral or natural. It hadn't been easy before. It had been horrible. Yet here we were hurtling headlong back into it again. After all, we'd made a deal with the devil eleven years ago. It was a deal that said we'll give you anything to have that "dog love" in our lives - and the Devil said:
"Yes, you will. And you will give him back to me when I call no matter the how or the why and you will wonder and cry."
So there we were: Here again watching that brilliant and precious puppy from eleven years ago - the one with the orange collar who licked my face and made me swoon - here we were again with that devil - killing love.
"You're doing the right thing," they all say. "It was time."
Yeah, well flock you, Devil.
I guess I have to stop here.
I am so fucking proud to have been his dad.
My tears are blinding me, and to relay the experience of the tall Dog Reaper who came to claim him from us on Heaven's behalf yesterday seems silly or even morose. It does not matter, I suppose. Suffice it to say that Clark's passing was a peaceful one and we are grateful for this kindness sent from the fates.
Time could no longer stand still for him, nor for us.
He has made it out into the cool breeze.
And we are gutted.
🕊
