Everywhere

From the backseat, I look at her tired body on my mom’s lap, knowing that though we  gave our best efforts in the fight, it was never a battle that we would ever win. Her momentary shrieks of agony and hopelessness from a couple hours before ring in my ears and remind me  that despite the intense pain running rampant throughout my body and my heart yearning for  more time, this is the only decision. Each thought fills my eyes with more tears than the last, and  each moment draws us closer to the inevitable outcome we innocently hoped we could prevent.  Her breathing is heavy in the front seat and my parents gently stroke her face and her shaved  stomach, a painful reminder of the ultrasound that brought us the devastating diagnosis that  unavoidably led us here.  

My parents carry her out of the truck and take slow steps to the side door of the building  where we were told someone would be waiting for us. I’m so sorry for your loss, a voice had said through the phone just moments ago; a phrase I’m sure he’s recited countless times before.  My parents caress her soft fur and drown her in the kisses we never expected would be forced to end so quickly. Hoping that time would somehow cease around me, I give her one more kiss and tell her how much I love her and miss her already; my audible pain is utterly uncontrollable. My  parents mournfully walk in and the image of the door shutting behind them quickly becomes  blurred by the tears rushing out of my eyes, and my still body seemingly being sucked further and  further away. With my sister here with me through my phone, I walk back to our truck with  inconsolable sobs and wobbly steps, and I shut my eyes as I hop onto the bed of the truck and let  the hot breeze take me back. I go everywhere.  

I’m in the car with my parents on a snowy Saturday evening in January, staring out the  foggy window as Natalie Merchant plays softly through my earbuds and I drift in and out of  uncomfortable sleep. None of us are saying much; the anxiety and excitement about meeting our  new rescue and the grief of the one we just put down all hang heavy among us. This might help  us move on, my mom had said as we scrolled through the husky rescue page a few distant weeks  before. We drive up a long, windy driveway with a snow-covered path leading us to the front  door. With a “we’re really doing this” sigh from all of us, we walk up the creaky steps,  pleasantly greeted with the fearless, spunky, resilient dog we would all quickly grow to deeply  love.  

I’m running down the busy road behind my house, barefoot with my floral sundress  flowing behind me in the hot breeze. She dashes in and out of our neighbors’ garages and  gleefully runs away from me, mistakenly thinking that this is just a game and that the front gate  was purposely left open for her escape. My left hand is thrown up behind me as I try to stop the  car from hitting both me and her, all while pleading to the universe that no car comes barreling  down the road the other way. I see her running further toward the interstate as my body seems to  stop and get pulled backward and my lungs start to cave in. Not to anyone’s surprise, my mom’s  Superwoman instincts kick in and she comes speeding past my wheezing body and slow feet, flinging open the passenger door of the truck at the exact moment necessary to save our girl from  an excruciating and fateful end.  

I’m at her favorite summer spot in Rhode Island, reading a good book and overlooking  the ocean as she sprawls out on the rocks underneath the red umbrella that we set up just for her.  Her water bowl is set next to her and she’s panting that happy kind of pant – the one where her body is at just the right comfort level, her heart is just the amount of full, her mind consumed  only with solitude and appreciation. She occasionally glances back at us as we sit in our creaking  beach chairs and sip on a citrus soda, not knowing what time it is and not really caring at all. 

I’m walking the route we have walked hundreds of times: up the street and to the left,  then back down, past our street and into the nearby cul de sac, then loop back around. Some days  the route looks different, depending on her mood or the weather. She knows when her body has had enough, and she is confident in letting us know when it is time to turn around and go home.  She always called the shots and we always let her, not ever thinking that it should be any other  way. She stops almost every seven seconds, taking in all the sniffs – each one seemingly as novel  as if she’d never laid her little black, cold nose on it. Her gentle heart toughens up and her deep  bark comes out each time we pass another four-legged friend, only for her to remind them that she is still an alpha at heart. Each time we let out a little chuckle as we redirect her to the path. That  girl, we’d always say.  

I’m riling her up in our backyard, chasing her as she joyfully runs away from my  energized body. With the security of a fence around us rather than running down a busy road, I  happily play along in her game. I try to catch her, but her instincts are quicker than mine and she  finds herself yards away, rubbing it in once again that speed will never be my strength. I flop  myself onto the soft grass and she licks my face as I roll over and try to catch my breath. She  runs away again – her game not yet over – just as I try to take hold of her precious face and give  her some loving, another thing she only gave and received on her terms. 

I’m laying on the couch wrapped in my designated “sick day” blanket, and she’s curled  up on her bed next to me, staring up at me every so often and smiling as I respond with a gentle  stroke to her soft head. I get up only to use the bathroom and refill my glass of ginger ale, and  she follows me each time, casually wondering if I’ll sneak her an animal cracker on our way  back to the living room. Don’t tell Mom, I whisper as she inhales the treat that she knew she was  going to get. We always snuck her treats, until she didn’t want them anymore. 

I’m doing yoga and she’s starting to get restless and bored on her big brown bed next to  me. She lets out a slight yelp – her cue to let us know we’re not giving her enough attention – and whips her head around as if to say, “Who did that?” I laugh in my poses, and she not-so innocently interrupts my flow by licking my face and pouncing on me. She jumps around and  grabs the edge of my mat with her mouth and vigorously shakes her head back and forth, leaving  a giant hole that I never cared to fix.  

I’m drinking a glass of wine on my front porch on a warm late August evening as she  rests her body at my feet. She lifts her head up as her nose catches a scent of something good,  then she looks at me and she does her happy pant. We share this moment – this sense of ease and content – as my dad and uncle finish collecting the hay bales for the day. She watches in  amusement through our front porch gate, and I wonder if she’s anticipating the hamburger she’s  going to get for dinner. Cooking burgers – or anything – with Dad on the front porch is one of  her favorite things. 

I’m laughing as I whip my phone out and snap a video of her pretending my dad’s pant  leg is a stuffed toy as she tries to drag it through the fresh snow. He playfully tells her to stop  while graciously playing along, making sure she doesn’t actually damage his work jeans in the  process. She flails her limber body around, a conspicuous smile painting her soft black and white  face. She’s in her element in the snow, always reminding us that she is the embodiment of her  breed.  

I’m sitting with my mom on our living room couch as we stare at our girl comfortably  wrapped on the couch that we designated just for her. Maybe we should call the vet, my mom  says, her words filled with fearful hesitation. I’m reminded of the recent days of her not being as  excited to eat her treasured dinners and the cookies she started to refuse. Our daily walks lately of her stopping to eat grass and throw it up a few minutes later add to the evidence that  something could actually be wrong. Her mood had shifted a little, too – the discomfort she was likely feeling becoming ever more present each day. 

I’m staring at her in admiration as she sits in her “hunting spot” a few feet away from the  bunny hole underneath our backyard shed. She’s spent most of her time there for the past few  days, only coming inside when she hears us call her for a walk or when the soft sun sets behind  her. I feel a fleeting sense of hope and find myself thinking that perhaps her recent symptoms are  remnants of a prolonged stomach bug; perhaps this is not something more, and perhaps our  worry is merely unwarranted. She was still doing all the things she used to do, and her years only  just reached double digits. 

I’m strolling through the basement door on a cold Friday afternoon in January after a long day  of anxiety and wondering how things turned out. Not good, my mom says when I ask how it  went, it’s what I thought; she has a tumor and it’s in her intestinal tract. I stand there speechless  and still, innocently imagining that my mom was telling me Mia actually had a gene that would  make her live forever – or that yes, it was just a prolonged stomach bug that can be easily fixed  with medicine and rest. But those imaginations grow dull as we drive to the vet to pick her up,  sharing only a few words and much defeat. Unfortunately, she’s got an aggressive one, the vet  says when we get there, but we can try to treat it and extend her life as long as possible.  

I’m giving her kisses on her couch on a cold March morning before I leave for work, thinking about how grateful I am that we took her to her favorite summer spot yesterday. We wanted to give her one last time to jump up and around the rocks and look over the crashing  waves – just in case. Her head is down with her ears pulled back, and she looks uncomfortable, a jagged reminder that regardless of our efforts to treat and our high spirits, we might still lose this battle. Her checkup is today, and like the rest of us, I fear that her days are getting darker. Four long hours at work go by until I cautiously open the text from my mom: no sign of cancer! I’m on a family hike and she charges up that mountain as if her body didn’t just endure  both cancer and a rigorous treatment. She pulls my mom to the front of our pack, glancing back a few times as if to say, “Can you all catch up?” We get to the top and she looks out at the world below, not sharing any of our fears that the cancer could come back or that moments like these are limited, only thinking about how great this is: everyone is together, the sun is shining, and she is breathing. She lays down her panting body and glues her eyes to my snacks, knowing that I likely brought enough for her and even if I didn’t, knowing she was going to get some anyway.  

I’m finishing the final paper for my last graduate class at my bedroom desk, watching the  sun paint the sky a blend of orange and purple with the comfort of her snuggled up on her worn,  fuzzy bed behind me. Her breaths are slow and even, her gentle eyes gaze up at mine as I glance  over my shoulder to make sure those breaths are still present. Her stomach makes audible twists  and turns, sending me a painful and clear reminder that “remission” does not mean “fully  recovered.” Stopping my typing fingers mid-sentence, I get down onto the floor to pet her soft  face and put my forehead against the small space in between her sad eyes. I love you baby girl, I  say as a warm tear slides off my cheek and onto her bed, you are so special.  

I’m walking in the door from a long day at work, mindlessly yelling out for my mom to  ask what’s for dinner. She had to rush Mia to the vet, my dad says. It’s not good. I drop my lunch  box onto the table and feel my cheeks sink in. Really? I ask, more rhetorical than curious. My  dad doesn’t answer but gives me a scared smile. We just have to wait and see what happens. Her  large pillow at the foot of our loveseat already looks unbearably meaningless without her.  

I’m in the backyard under one of her favorite trees on a muggy June afternoon, two hours  before we made the excruciating decision to let her go. Every so often she screams out as the  waves of agony rip through her body, the evidence of an irreversible infection clearer to us after  each wave. It’ll all be over soon, my mom whispers into her ailing body. We’re going to help  this end, Baby; the ache of her words is evident in her tearful tone. My sister, on her way back  home on a train, sits with us in this difficult silence as we watch our girl’s sun begin to set.  

Now, I’m begrudgingly back on the bed of the truck as I feel my mom come closer to  squeeze me tight and continue to share this heartache. I hear the sound of the truck rev up – a  sound sure to always perk up Mia’s ears and send her running for our backyard fence – as my  dad climbs into the front seat. We sit there and cry together, my mom grasping Mia’s faded red  collar in her left hand as the other squeezes the bridge of her nose. The sight of the empty space  in between my parents is agonizing, and the thought of anything is unbearable. 

I want to be everywhere but here, because that’s where she was – alive. 

We dreadfully pull away and leave a piece of us at the vet, the same piece that was with  us everywhere, and the one that will remain painfully irreplaceable. 

Maddy studied Creative Writing at Southern Connecticut State University and also attended a Gotham Writer's Workshop for fiction writing. Maddy is an introvert and an avid yogi who enjoys reading, writing, and spending time by the sea. She loves Dove dark chocolate, all things purple, oldies playlists, and brisk walks in the middle of a New England October. She works in the counseling and education fields and is a strong advocate for equity and social justice.