Pop some bubbles for me, ol' man.

I look out the window at New Hope Rd. passing by in a blur of color, watching the people go on with their normal Friday afternoon activities. My arm is lightly draped over his bony shoulders, my thumb softly stroking his shaggy chocolate-colored fur.
Every so often I glance at him, my eyes resting on a body wasted with age, skin hanging from bone. This skeletal look has of late become familiar, the heavy stink hanging around him like a malodorous cloud a part of life. I think back to when he was young and active: he used to catapult himself off the ground after bubbles.

We walk into the vet office, and when the receptionist suggests we weigh him I think oh please. Where's the point in that?
The exam room door closes behind us and Beethoven's heavy, rasping breath fends off the silence. This panting is more distress than anything; I can see in his cloudy eyes that he is nervous. He knows perfectly well where he is, and wants to be gone.
We sit with him on the cool tiled floor, silence pervading the small room broken every now and then by sniffs. I blink frequently, dispelling the moisture that threatens to bead in the corners of my eyes. No particular thoughts go through my mind as I gently stroke his bony flank.

He struggles as the nurses try to give him a light sedative to relax him, though soon they get the needle in and give him the sedative. His body relaxes and he settles onto his side, the nictitating membrane flicking over his eyes as his breathing slows and deepens.
Once he's peacefully asleep, we take turns holding his head in our arms to murmur our good-byes. As I step around and lean over his still form, it finally catches up to me. I rest my brow on his temple, stroking his face. Sobs claw at my chest, struggling to be released, but my throat is closed shut. Eventually I must exhale, my breath ragged as I release it and draw air back in. For several minutes I ignore the world, fighting back the sobs constricting my trachea. See ya on the flip side, old man. You give a few squirrels hell for me, all right? Run 'em to the ground, like you used to go after them at home.
The little yellow button set into the wall is pressed twice, and it flashes incessantly for a while until someone acknowledges the summons and cuts it off. The vet walks into a room choked with suppressed emotion that hangs like a thick mist.
The torquinet is clamped around his leg until a vein stands up from his bony foreleg, and the needle goes in. I watch, my gaze transfixed as slowly the translucent pink liquid is injected, my mind still void of articulate thought. After a few minutes his diaphragm and larynx spasm, making him emit a curious noise like a weak cough though his heart has been still for several minutes.
The vet leaves us to take our time with the final good-bye.
"He's off chasing squirrels and eating bubbles now." Yeah. Pop some bubbles for me, ol' man.
Beethoven still looks like he's asleep, though the gentle rise and fall of his chest is absent. We all hold him one last time, and once more I wait until last. Though I have the opportunity to take as long as I wish, I know that the more I linger the worse it will be. "Bye, Obers." My voice is cracked as I stroke his ears one last time.

More sobs threaten as I take my last fleeting glimpse of him, lying perfectly still on the exam table. I fight them back, keeping my face as neutral as I can as we exit the clinic. It feels bizarre, leaving him there in the exam room.
During the journey home I hold his old collar, remembering how you were always able to tell where ol' Obers was when he had it on by the jingle and clatter of the tags. The strip of tough material lays across my lap, under scrutiny by eyes looking far away into the past.
The headache that had been threatening since fourth period manifests in my sinuses, trying to pry my eyes from my skull. Though I know it's caused by the tears I had let leak from the corners of my eyes, I like to think of it as a physical outlet for the aching grief. The rumbling snarl of the Harley in front of our car on the drive home seems unnaturally loud in my ears.

Stuck in my head in the song that had been playing in the exam room before the vet turned it off in that room prior to the final injection; ironically enough, the song is I Ain't Missing You At All.

***

So there you have it. After fourteen years, ol' Beethoven can finally rest easy now. Hooch will have fifteen fits and fall in them once he realizes that Obey won't come back, the poor pup.
If you peeps (David, Patrick and Reggie) notice me acting a bit quieter and distracted, don't worry too much. I'll be back to my usual spazzy, hyper self soon enough.