Death of Dogs

Of the three dogs I once had, only my old hound Carolina survives. She runs around the yard early in the morning, following scents in circles, occasionally lifting her head to howl. When I bring her in, she looks relieved and sleeps for the rest of the day.

Harry, my elderly beagle, died first and peacefully on his pillow in front of the fire. My grandson Joe was living here then. Harry was failing, and Joe volunteered to sleep on the couch, ready to alert me if anything changed. When Harry’s breathing stopped being labored and became intermittent, Joe woke me. It was six in the morning. We sat down on the floor by Harry’s pillow. “You’re a good dog, Harry,” we said, stroking his fur. He died half an hour later. His body relaxed, and when his tongue lolled from his mouth it was gray. Gray.

Joe buried him in the garden, and planted a weeping cherry, which is weeping again this spring.

Then Rosie, my favorite (I admit I had a favorite), died in my arms last November. I knew she was dying, I’d known it all day, and I carried her upstairs to bed, where we lay all afternoon, and into the night. Occasionally she turned her head to look at me. “I’m right here,” I said. Now and then she would lap a little water from a bowl. She tried desperately to get out of bed when she had to pee, but collapsed on the rug. I picked her up, and we lay together until quarter to ten, when she let out a dreadfully human groan, and I held her and held her and when it was done I was old.