What are you doing calling at 3:30? You never call before you go to work. You barely call, anyway.
I answer.
Kaya is dying, you say.
I can tell you're crying. And you never cry.
And Dad won't do anything. He says he doesn't have that kind of money. And I don't. I don't know what to do. What should I do.
She's laying here. She can't move her back legs. She cried all night.
Pause. I can't think of anything to say. I don't have the money, either. Words, words, words. Any words. Ten thousand fly through my mind, none come out.
I'm going to go to work, and when I come back, she's gonna be dead.
Still, I have no words.
I'll call Derek, I say.
I know it doesn't mean anything, but I can sense your relief. Someone else can take care of it. You're still just a baby, really. You don't have to make the decision.
Go to work, I say, and when you come home the decision will have been made. She'll be better or she won't be in pain anymore.
Okay, you say, only part relieved
We both know it's the last time you'll see her.
I hang up and cry.
I imagine you saying your last goodbye. I imagine you waiting until the last minute to leave so you can spend it with her. I imagine how gentle you are with her, rubbing under her jaw bone and squeezing her ears. I can see your tears, one even drips onto your hand and you don't do anything about it. I can see her squinting her eyes and stretching her neck out as you rub it. I see her fear disapear for a minute. And then you're gone.
I think about you two.
I remember how she'd bring you dead things. You'd say it was disgusting, but you loved that she brought them to you.
She'd wake you up in the night, but you were glad she chose your room to be in.
She bit too much and played too rough, but you loved to have the little scratches.
She'd use you window to get in and out, and you let her.
When you get back, she is gone. Heart disease, it turns out. Poor baby wasn't getting any blood to the lower half of her body. She's peaceful, now.