Kelly Pilgrim

Interlude

My dog is slowly dying. Each day a little closer, and there's not a damn thing I can do about it.

It's three a.m. and I'm sitting here alone. Alone all but for the sound of his rasping. I can't see him, but I know how he looks right now by the noises his body makes.

His belly is bloated with fluid and he's sitting propped up against the television cabinet. His shoulders have dropped and they sit further apart than they used to because his heart is enlarged and he finds it difficult to breathe.

There's rhythm in the way he sits, dying. His heart is drumming—I can feel it through his chest when I pick him up. His lungs sound like a watery rainforest and his breathing is the woosh of rainfall.

He drags his feet along the linoleum flooring to the water bowl and drinks an amount of water that shows me he can't quench his thirst. When he's done, he rolls onto his side, exhausted.

I should have made the decision by now, but the way he looks at me clearly says not yet. The vet told me I'll know when.

I fear I'm wrong.

What if the not yet look is actually please end it?

I've been keeping him alive for months with yellow and white tablets. Double the dose recommended by the vet.

Still, his body makes music.

Don't you think that will be a little difficult? I mean, won't she have a say in where you're buried? Damn it, you're dragging me into this scenario—is there something you want to tell me?

Every night I go to bed, I think the following morning I'll reach down and feel a stiff, cold body harbouring by my feet.

Honestly, I know nothing. If I knew I was dying I'd tell you. I'd buy loads of alcohol and have you over for pizza. We'd drink until we vomited like teenage binge drinkers and we'd tell each other the few secrets that we've kept to ourselves all these years.

Instead, I've taken to not sleeping much at all. If I don't sleep, he won't die alone.

He doesn't sleep much either. I wonder if he fears shutting his eyes and not waking like I fear it for him. Does he know what awaits him on the other side? Is that why animals can't speak?

They say animals don't have souls—that's what they say. When a person dies, they say they don't look the same, they appear empty, like a shell. They say it's because the soul has left. I want to believe his soul will rise above and see me gently laying his small body on the bed as I wonder what now?

When an animal dies, live fleas rise to the surface of the skin looking for another host—something warm. Tomorrow, I'll go to the cupboard and take out the flea powder and shower it over him. I'm preparing.

Fine, don't take it, but make sure I'm cremated. I don't want to be buried whole. Oh, and I nearly forgot... on my epitaph I want the following:

Opportunity dances with those who are already on the dance floor.

And make sure they put a full stop after my middle initial. I'm going to pick my plot before I die because you know how I am with numbers. You don't take it seriously enough to pick a good number for me.

I'll have him cremated and they'll place his ashes in a grey lunch box sized container. They'll supply a little marble plaque and with apologetic voices they'll ask me what I want engraved on it.

What to say?

I'm keeping him alive.

Listening to his music.

Preparing.

Waiting for a song and the opportunity.