Getting Schooled (Getting Some 1)

When you’re an adult, you’re supposed to know how to handle things like this. Pets get old—people get old—and eventually, everything dies. It’s a brutal, basic part of life. As a grown-up you understand that, recognize it, accept it . . . but that doesn’t mean, for a single second, that it doesn’t still hurt.

And God, does it hurt. Like your heart is being torn out from your chest.

“Can I hold him?” Garrett asks, in a ravaged voice, when the vet comes back in.

He nods and drags a cushioned chair out from the corner, closer to the table, and nods to Garrett. So gently, Garrett lifts Snoopy in his arms and Garrett sits down in the chair. Snoopy pants hard and lets out a weak whine.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, buddy,” Garrett soothes in a sure, steady voice. Gently, he strokes Snoopy’s white fur. “You’re gonna be okay . . . it’s not gonna hurt anymore, I promise.”

I try to hold it together. I try to be strong. But I can’t stop the flood of tears that fill my eyes and flow down my cheeks. Because there’s nothing harder than watching someone you love in pain and knowing you can’t take it away. You can’t make it better, no matter how much you want to. I sit on the arm of the chair, squeezed up next to Garrett. I put my hands on his shoulders, his arms, loving him, holding him.

“You’re such a good boy, Snoopy. I love you so much. You’re such a good boy.” Gentle and steady, Garrett’s hand slides down Snoopy’s back, calm and soothing. The sweet boy dips his snout and presses his nose against the crook of Garrett’s arm, his eyes closing.

Garrett’s throat sounds tight, clogged with wetness as he talks to the puppy who’s been with him for half his life.

“Remember when you found that dead skunk and you left it under my bed, as a present for me and Callie? Good times. Remember all those summers in the boat on the lake—you and me together. Remember . . . remember when Tim snuck you into the hospital after I hurt my knee? You stayed with me, under those blankets, you wouldn’t leave my side.” Garrett inhales, his voice trembling . . . then breaking. “You’re my best friend. Thank you for always being there when I needed you—every time.”

From the corner of my eyes, I see the doctor move around. He puts the tip of a syringe into the IV connected to Snoopy’s leg, then slowly injects a thick, white liquid. I press my face to Garrett’s neck, and hold him tight.

“You’re gonna sleep now, Snoop, you’re gonna rest,” Garrett soothes, his voice rhythmic. “And when you wake up, you’re gonna be healthy and happy—running through sunshine and chasing the geese. And there won’t be any pain. It’s okay, my good boy. I love you. It’s okay . . .”

I watch Snoopy’s midsection expand and contract with each of his breaths. It rises and falls. Again, and again.

Until it doesn’t. Until it stops.

And the best dog in the whole world goes quiet and still.

Garrett lets out a soft groaning whimper and gathers Snoopy closer, hiding his face in the downy white of Snoopy’s fur. His shoulders shake and his back shudders. I wrap my arms around him, enfolding him in my embrace, squeezing and clasping him to me. I kiss his hair and rest my forehead against his neck, and I sob.

Together, we both do.

~ ~ ~

A few hours later, we walk into Garrett’s house. He lays Snoopy’s collar on the hook next to the door, smoothing it reverently over the dark-blue leash that hangs there, below the metal plate etched with Snoopy’s name. Our movements are heavy, weighted and slow. Mournful.

I don’t let go of Garrett’s hand or arm. I don’t stop touching him. As deep and wrenching as my own sadness is, I know his is a hundred times more. Silently, we walk to the bedroom. Garrett sits on the edge of the bed, his feet braced on the floor. I unbutton his shirt and strip it from his arms. I skim the white cotton shirt beneath it up his torso and over his head. I unbutton his jeans and slide them down his legs, leaving him bare except for black boxer briefs.

It’s not sexual, but . . . intimate. Comforting someone in their grief is an act of love, being allowed to do it is a gift of trust. To see someone at their most vulnerable, to know their bare, unhidden pain.

Garrett lies back on the pillow, folding it in half beneath his head, tucking his arm under it, staring at the ceiling. His eyes are still wet, shiny in the dim moonlight that reverberates off the lake and through the window. I strip off my sweater and step out of my black leggings. I unhook my bra and slide it off my arms. I place Garrett’s clothes and mine on the corner chair, and then I slide under the cool sheets with him. Our bodies are aligned, every inch touching, and my arm is draped across his waist.