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The dog dies. The dog dies but he doesn’t die alone.
Sometimes that's worse. Sometimes the dog dies and you all sit around that awful medical table and put a hand on his back. On his leg. On his neck. You feel him whimper and huff and you feel the last fall of his chest. Sometimes you watch the dog die and it tears you apart into the most rotted meat. But your dog dies in a moment of felt love. And your dog dies loved forever. The only way to draw out a moment forever is by dying in it. Echos and all that.
Sometimes the dog dies alone. Sometimes he closes his eyes and his breath fades bit by bit until morning rises without him. Sometimes the dog dies on the road and whimpers until he can’t anymore. Sometimes he dies and he can’t remember the name you used to call him.
Sometimes his family isn’t willing to put their hands on his back. On his leg. On his neck.
Sometimes he dies without a family at all.
But this dog doesn’t die alone. Well, He dies surrounded. But no one stands close enough to put a hand on his back. On his leg. On his neck.
He dies surrounded. Center stage with only 3 to witness his falling.
The Killer, the Lover, the Child.
A bright red light hits his chest and he stumbles. He hits mist and he's gone.
The Killer runs. The Child follows the Killer. The Lover struggles not to follow the dog.
The lover. The wolf.
He has exactly one thing tying him here and sometimes, just a little ugly bit of him despises it.
Let's fantasize a scenario in which he steps towards mist and follows his old dog on the leash.
Let's fantasize a world where the two canines still spoke the same language they’d curated all those years ago. I know what you’re saying and you’re saying it right to me.
Let's fantasize a world in which the wolf has permission from all sides to let go, and takes an unrestricted breath for the first time. He can see his lungs are good for more than smoke and yelling. Let's fantasize a world in which the wolf gets air in his lungs and feeling in his fingertips.
Let's fantasize a world in which the wolf dies still enveloped in the aftershocks of the dog’s love. We will think of this as a kindness. Merciful allowances given by this cruel green god.
But the wolf does not. Though he will later indulge in selfish fear and backwards steps, now he looks towards the newly empty space. The impossibly vanished mass. Remus John Lupin steps away.
He looks at the dog. This old dog. This ghost of a man. Who isn’t breathing any more. Who’s been administered the drug. Who's been put down. This old dog. He puts a hand on his back. On his leg. On his neck. He digs his hand in the fur.
I’m here, I’m right here. My best friend. I’m here and I'm here with you and it's ok. It's ok, you can go. Oh you’ve done so well. I’m so proud of you. Thank you, my friend. I can't thank you in all the ways you deserve. I can’t follow you right now. But I will when I’m allowed.
I’m sorry for all the times I stepped on your tail and I’m sorry for all the times I was too tired to go for a walk.
Now I’ll go home and I’ll see your toys on the ground and I’ll see your food and water bowls and I'll cry, and I’ll shake through uneven breaths.
I’ll put your collar on the mantelpiece and I'll keep your toys on the ground. I’ll call for you and will feel it all over again when you don’t come running.
You’ll sit in the back of my head, curled up on a cushion. I love you. Thank you. I love you.
And when I see you again. When This Old Wolf sets himself down on the hard floor and dies, he’ll die alone. But then we’ll meet as ashes and I’ll tell you all of this again.
I’ll kneel next to you on the floor and I’ll dig my fingers into your fur. I’ll kiss you all over and we’ll make us bed.
We’ll lay in a sun patch in grass and we’ll rest.
So until we meet again.
Goodbye old friend.
This old dog, he rests.
He dies.