“Come here, girl.”
Ed patted his thigh as he stared at the fourteen-year-old corgi struggling to shimmy out of her crate. The dog stared back, eyes swelling with excitement, big dumb smile on her face as if she didn’t have a care in the world, her back legs hardly working, just par for the course.
She fell flat on her belly halfway out of the crate, still smiling, still staring up at him with her big beautiful doe eyes. Eyes full of ignorant happiness. Eyes that caused Ed’s own to fill with tears.
The dog, Violet, was old. Ed was old too. He’d named the dog after his daughter, who’d passed away some thirty years ago in a car accident. Nobody’s fault, just bad weather and bad luck. He and his wife, Mara, had no other children. After his daughter had passed, then a few years later, their golden retriever, and another decade after that, Mara herself from cancer, Ed had spent so many years alone.
Struggling to live.
His daughter had clung to life for days after the accident, his wife for years after her diagnosis. Hell, even the golden had fought to live every day it could. He figured he’d owed it to all of them to keep on keeping on for as long as he could, no matter how much it pained him, missing them every day.
So he got himself a dog, and named her Violet. The corgi hadn’t replaced his daughter, but she had certainly and quickly become another daughter. And she was all he had.
Fourteen years. He smiled wanly. That’s like damn near a hundred in dog years. He went to Violet and hefted her into his arms. The corgi licked his cheek once, then rested her head against his shoulder.
He stroked the back of her neck. “Why do you even go into that crate anymore? Huh? I haven’t shut the door to it since you were a pup.”
Ed held her close. He knew the answer. The crate was her home, just as beside him on the couch was her home when he watched television and curled against his hip was her home when he went to bed. The one-bedroom, one-bathroom apartment wasn’t much, but it was enough for the two of them.
But Violet had severe arthritis, and she was suffering. She was lucky if she could walk more than a few steps without her back legs splaying, her belly plopping against the ground. Every time it happened, she looked up at Ed with those unassuming, apologetic eyes as if she might have done something wrong. That guilt—projection, he knew, but that did nothing to soften it—burned hot in his chest, the pain deep and pure, his breath hitching in response to any inclination concerning the battle Violet was losing.
He reached for her leash then shook his head, scolding himself for his gaff. The dog hadn’t needed the leash for months. She wasn’t running anywhere.
With a heavy sigh, he picked up his keys and went out into the hallway. He didn’t bother locking his door, the average age of his neighbors being close to eighty. He carried Violet down the three flights of stairs that led to the complex’s front doors. From there, it was a short walk to the pet area, where Violet could do her business.
He placed her on the grassy earth with all the caution of a man balancing an egg on a spoon. Once she seemed to be standing firmly, he gently held her just above her hips so she could walk without fear of falling.
Violet took a few steps then spread her legs to pee. Her legs kept slipping, but Ed caught and held her as urine trickled onto the grass.
“You really need to put her down,” someone said from behind him.
Ed felt heat rising in his face, some from anger and some from shame. He knew the dog’s quality of life had been on a drastic decline and had battled the idea of putting her down. But every time he turned it over in his head, he wanted to scream and sob and shake his fists at the heavens for the cruelty of life’s feeble condition.
It was his decision to make, though, and he didn’t care for busybody neighbors butting their goddamn noses into his business. He whirled around, ready to lash out, but checked his temper and donned a phony smile before it was too late.
“Hi, Gladys.” Ed hoped his face wasn’t as red as it felt, though he could always blame it on the strain of bending over and carrying the dog, burdens he’d undertake for another fourteen years if it meant being with Violet all that time. “How’s Kirk? Any change?”
Gladys was a hospice nurse who worked double duty, after hours caring for her husband, Kirk, who was suffering from ALS in an apartment down the hall from Ed. He didn’t mean the question to sound callous and hoped it hadn’t, for he was genuinely concerned about Kirk’s well-being. Kirk had always been a fine neighbor and, had his disease not debilitated him so early on in Ed’s tenure at the complex, might have made a decent friend.
Gladys, on the other hand, was a bitch—a nosy, gossipy troublemaker who never knew how to leave well enough alone. A week didn’t go by when she wasn’t fighting with someone in the building. Ed did his best to excuse it. The woman lived a hard life made harder by unfortunate and undeserved conditions, something he knew a little about himself.
“No change,” Gladys said, her mouth a thin line. “At least he didn’t poop himself today.”
Ed didn’t know what to say to that, so he said nothing.
A gnarled finger extended, she pointed at Violet, who was now lying against Ed’s sneaker. “You need to put that thing down and soon,” she snarled. “If you don’t, I’m calling animal control.” With that, she turned to leave.
Ed clenched his teeth as he watched her go. He glanced down at his girl, who was looking up at him with tongue lolling, big dumb smile returned. He couldn’t help but smile back. Like swaddling a baby, he wrapped Violet in his arms and headed inside.
Gladys’s comment festered like a wound that wouldn’t heal. After giving Violet some fresh water and helping her into her crate, he decided he needed some fresh air. He stepped back out of his apartment, once again leaving it unlocked, and headed for a lap around the block to clear his head.
When he got back, his front door was ajar.
His body screamed trouble. Without thinking, he ran through the door. There, Gladys stood over his dog, a long needle in her hand. In the crate, Violet’s eyes were closed. Her side rose and fell rapidly as a purplish liquid ran from her mouth.
“It’s for her own good,” Gladys said, her mouth tight. If she felt anything for what she’d done, it didn’t show. “It’s mercy.”
Crying, Ed pushed Gladys aside, ran to his dog, and pulled her from the crate. He raced down the stairs, taking them two or three at a time, putting tremendous strain on his own aching joints. But the pain was a distant echo, the worry and maddening dread spurring him forward at a pace he had no longer thought himself capable.
He placed his girl on the passenger seat of his car and slid behind the wheel. He drove as fast as he was able, swerving through traffic and blowing through red lights, barely able to see through the tears in his eyes.
When he screeched to a halt outside the animal hospital’s entrance, Violet was already dead. Ed broke down. He didn’t bother going inside.
***
A week passed, and Ed was no better off than he had been at the time of Violet’s death. That night, he caught Gladys leaving on an errand. Once she was clear of the hallway, he hurried down it to her apartment, shimmied open the door, and stepped inside.
“It’s for his own good,” he said, almost snarling as he smothered Kirk with a pillow. “It’s mercy.”