By the Dashboard Lights

by Dave Friedli

The Passing

I held the precious package in my arms, wrapped in a clean bath

towel. Gently but securely, I struggled to hold on to something I

knew I had to give up. I resisted.

"We'll take care of things now, Dave," said a voice I have trusted

for years.

My arms gradually extended, and I found myself needing self-talk to

do what I wanted to do, but couldn't do willingly.

Give up. There is nothing else to be done. This is the time. It

is right. I felt stronger arms under my own as I passed the bundle

on. I swallowed hard. It didn't help.

All the emotions I fought to hold back came out as the weight left

my hands. My arms were as empty as my heart.

I cried. That's what happens when you lose someone you love. Daily,

people lose family members, relatives and friends.

It should be easier when it is just a pet. But it's not.

Even though my burden should have been lighter once the veterinarian

took the lifeless body of my family's dog, I suddenly felt weak in

the knees.

My heart pounded, my eyes fogged over, and I felt myself beginning

to shake. The embrace of arms around my waist from two children kept

me from falling. Looking down at a son and a daughter, I saw I was

not alone in the emotion of the moment.

Petey, the mixed breed terrier who The Wife and I bought from a pet

store nearly 17 years ago, was a faithful companion to everyone in

our family. Petey wasn't just a pet.

If nothing else, she was resilient. She survived being dressed in

doll clothes and being squirted with water guns. She lived through

the unpotting of Grandma's houseplants.

She endured being told to sit, come, stay and speak, all for a

measly dog treat.

She walked in the Burt Country Parade in support of Senatorial

candidates. She visited people in the rest home. She inspired

elementary students to run a lap around the track in physical

education. She never bit anyone, even if they deserved it.

She knew words: track, park, 'walkies', cat and squirrel. She

never caught a trespasser in the yard, but she was always good for a

chase. She welcomed a second dog in the house.

But in recent months, Petey hadn't chased or played or even begged

for treats. Gradually, stiffness in her joints, deteriorating

strength and failing senses confined her to her bed in the corner of

the room. We knew her time was limited. We didn't discuss it.

Friday night, when the house was quiet and I was home alone, Petey

communicated for the last time, letting out two short barks. I was

at her side when her body shook. My hand felt her last breath.

The convulsions of this pet were not unlike those my children and I

now experienced as we pulled each other closer.

Minutes passed. We walked--half-stumbled--out the door. My legs

were rubber, my vision blurred. At the front of the clinic, the

innocence of a six-year-old spoke: "Will we see Petey again?"

We turned and rushed back in, touching soft fur one last time with

gentle strokes. We wished to see a brown flash zip out the door. We

longed to hear the click and clatter of toenails on wood floors. Oh,

for a simple bark. We knew those times were passed. Perhaps that's

why death is referred to as 'passing on'.

""We'll take care of things now, Dave," the voice repeated. "She

was one of our favorites here."

She was a favorite everywhere. We reluctantly said goodbye.

Petey

July 4, 1984 - April 6, 2001