Two Years

I really hate this world sometimes. I guess it all started back when my dog had to be euthanized. That fucked me up real bad. I remember everything leading up until the day it was done. My dog, my little buddy, my best friend, suffered from food aggression. Some shit the adoption agency I got him from didn’t mention to me.

I hate them, too. Well, anyways, he bit my brother and the incident was bad enough that the hospital and the state got involved. The bite wasn’t that bad. Most of the wound was caused by my brother. My dog’s tooth broke his skin and my brother tore his arm away, tearing his flesh. Not that I blame my brother for anything.

I know nobody had any control in that situation. This happened when I set a bowl of tuna fish out for my dog, and my brother went to move it closer to him. My dog thought he was getting his food taken away and flipped out. That was all it took. After that it was just a matter of weeks before he was going to be put to sleep.

I was out of work at the time so I spent every fucking hour of every god-damned day looking for someone to take my two year-old pup. I called sanctuaries, dog farms, everyone. They all replied with exponential fees and unmeetable standards. I was falling apart by this time. I just kept waking up each morning, hoping this whole mess would be a bad dream.

I never looked so hard for something in my life. For a while I told myself it would all be alright. That I would be able to find someone to take my dog in and, after proper training, I’d be able to get him back. But in the eyes of the state and the law, he was a no-good puppy, deserving of death. We knew if we gave him back to the adoption agency that they’d just put him to sleep.

And my parents both agreed that if he was destined to die, he would die surrounded by his family. I remember the day we had to take him to the vet. I had lost all hope, and yet I was numb to the fact that he was just a few hours away from oblivion. I spent the day with him, playing out in the snow and the cold.

It didn’t matter that I was freezing or getting ice burn. None of that mattered, as long as I could spent every second with him. He had no idea what was going to happen and that’s what killed me most of all. I gave him every food he wanted that day and spoiled the shit out of him. I remember sliding down a snowy hill while he chased after me.

I laid back for a moment and looked up at the sky. For a few minutes I actually dropped all my beliefs and prayed for this day to just go away. I regret those few minutes as they should have been spent with him. When the hour finally rolled around my family and I got him into the car and drove to the vet.

My father had made the appointment a week before. The whole drive there, I couldn't hold myself together. He seemed so happy, having no idea of what was coming. When we finally arrived at the vet I wanted to let go of his leash so badly. I don’t know why I didn’t. better he die in the wild, than at the hands of people and their fucked laws.

We went inside and he was given a shot to make him loopy. His eyes were bloodshot. I knew he was afraid. I held his face and all I could think to say was that I was sorry, over and over again. I apologized for not trying hard enough, as and owner, as a friend, as a provider. Looking back, there’s so much more I wish I’d done.

He was laying on the floor and the doctor gave him the final shot. His head went limp and the whole time I was half blind from the tears. I couldn’t even see straight. I kept getting him to look at me, hoping he could pass peacefully if my face was the last thing he’d ever see. Then, after a few seconds, the vet said he was gone and my puppy’s expressions went dead.

He went limp and I began screaming. It was like my heart had been torn out. This indescribable pain completely ruined me. I held his limp head as my family wept. I looked into his eyes, trying to convince myself that the injection didn't work. That he might still be alive. But it was no use. It was a sight I wish I’d never seen.

My best friend was dead and in that moment I wished I was too. All I could remember after that was the smell of medicine and shit that filled the air as his bowels evacuated. Never before had I seen death so absolutely. My father came in afterwards, covering his red face, as he didn’t have the heart to see it happen.

I’d never screamed so hard in my life. I begged him to wake up, but eventually my father convinced me to leave the room. It was one of the few rare times I saw my father cry. He said he was so sorry, that he didn’t want any of this. I knew. I didn’t blame him. I didn’t know what to think after that. He was to be cremated and sent back to us two weeks later.

The car ride home was silent. No one dared to speak. I was a blubbering mess the whole ride back. I held his leash so tightly. The first thing I did when I got home was walk to my room, locked the door behind me and cried for as long as my body would allow it. I laid on my dog’s bed and cried for what felt like hours.

My mother knocked on the door, but knew I wasn’t going to open it. Everyone left me alone, which is what I had wanted. A few hours later is when, for the first time in my life, I attempted to kill myself. Looking back on it, it was foolish, I know. But in that moment I just wanted to be with my buddy again.

I took one of my knives and began to cut my wrist, but stopped once the tears came flowing back again. I threw the knife across the room and curled up, back on his bed. My wrist was cut a little, but I paid it no mind. I kept telling myself more death wasn’t the answer and deep down I knew it. I still cry to this day.

Hell, I’m bawling while I sit, writing this. Each day I wake up, hoping I’ll sit up in bed and him sleeping beside me, just like he used to. The usually shit followed after his death. My family saw him a few times around the house, the squeaking doors sounded like his whimpering and you could smell him everywhere.

Finding his toys around the house and collecting them up didn’t help maters. I had to throw away his bed and I almost fell over outside, tearing up as I folded his broken toys into his mattress, then into the garbage. Not a single day goes by where I don’t think of him or if there was some way I could have prevented the entire thing.

If I had to choose one reason to have never been born, it would have been to prevent myself from ever experiencing any of this. Since then I haven’t been able to sleep in my room most night. Hell, I can’t stand to be in my home at all. The memories are just torture. I shut down for a while, got a job, eventually was rushed to the hospital where I learned the trauma of everything that had happened resulted in nerve damage in my neck, increased my anxiety and depression.

It was also around this time that the first girl I had ever truly loved said she was leaving, for good. I was put on pills to calm the depression and nerves and now I’m slowly building back up to a better and brighter me. Things are alright now, but I know I’ll never stop crying over my little buddy, my best friend; and thanking him for the only two years of his life and the greatest two years of mine.

I will always believe that there could have been another way, and this prospect will disturb me, and leave me crying myself to sleep every night, for the rest of my life.