I have to carry you out to the car. Once upon a time I wouldn’t have
managed but there’s nothing much to you now. I settle you on the rug. Talk
softly. Avoid your eyes.
It takes us no time at
all to reach the surgery, so I open the door and sit down alongside you and we
watch the sun on the weeds between the concrete cracks. You seem content, if a
little puzzled, but I can’t tell you what’s happening. I can’t speak right now.
I have difficulty
closing the car door and I don’t want to make any sudden movements while you’re
in my arms, so I leave it wide open.
You sniff the air inside
the surgery and put up a half-hearted fight, but the doctor and nurse are
waiting – I discussed this with them last night – and we go straight into a consulting
room. They talk in undertones. I hold
your hand. I tell you everything’s going to be alright. You’re not convinced. After
fifteen years you know me too well.
Then the moment is upon
us and I have to step to one side of the table.
I don’t let go of you.
I watch the long silver needle slide in. It seems
too big but you don’t flinch.
Your eyes glaze over. Your soft head droops.
After some time I have to let go of your furry
And I walk out to the car, close the gaping door
and drive away.