Lucky

I’m not sure where I heard it (or really, if I even did — maybe it was only a dream), but I’ve heard it said that dogs are closer to heaven.

—

We arrived at home a few minutes after 7 PM, weary from the festivities of the day prior. Having the opportunity to see each other only a few times every year, our family reunions are noisy, and loud, and full of boisterous laughter, off-key karaoke sessions, and piles upon piles of food.

When I stepped out of the car, I immediately went upstairs to check on my Pomeranian, Nami, who had a sprain because of a fall.

As I was drifting off to sleep, with the dog keeping watch (perhaps out of incredulity more than anything else, I didn’t even have the energy to play with her!), my cousin barged into the room, panicking. With half-lidded eyes, I proceeded to tell her with very little courtesy to exit my room, but she interrupted me with a shake to my shoulders and a, “Lucky’s dying.”

My first reaction (isn’t this everyone’s?) was doubt. I casually slung the comforter over my body and feebly raised my hand to shoo her away, but my dad called my name, too.

That was when I knew.

—

A majority of my family members may have established their careers in the medical practice, but dear Lucky, all of them worked with humans.

My mom, who worked at pulmonary ward, tried to resuscitate you. But she was never taught animal CPR in nursing school. She looked at your breathing, measured your breaths, counted your heartbeats, and told my dad to fetch her an oxygen bag.

My cousin, who works as a medical representative, had a gym bag and a car trunk stock full of medicines. Vitamins, supplements, antibiotics, but none of them for dogs.

I was staring in silence as my dad feverishly tried to make you feel comfortable as my niece was pumping air into your tiny lungs. Her nimble 12 year old hands were pushing up and down, up and down so sporadically I thought your lungs would burst. You were breathing, slowly, erratically, but you were.

I didn’t open my mouth because I would swallow my tears (now they were just gushing down my face) if I did.

—

After a few minutes of mechanical movements, my brain finally snapped. I grabbed a hold of you, and reached for your front left foot.

You were cold long before you were dead.

You whimpered, a silent one. Almost indiscernible, and only I heard it because my ear was next to your face. I was making silent prayers directed to anyone who would listen.

You were breathing. Small, tiny breaths. Unnoticed if not for our eagle eyes watching your every movement.

You opened your eyes, and for a moment my niece’s face lit up. “He’s alive!” She kept yelling. She went inside and told my grandmother. “He’s alive! He’s alive!”

But my mom was quiet.

And I’ve seen enough movies to know what would happen next.

You opened your eyes, Lucky. You opened your eyes like a pleading infant. You opened your eyes, and then you moved your head, and then you shivered. And then you peed. Light yellow liquid poured out of your body, pooling around you, covering you in them. You always peed puddles bigger than your size.

And then you threw up. It was the first time I saw you sick, and the first time you weren’t the loud, usually annoying, Mini Pinscher that I knew you to be. Reddish liquid dribbled out of your mouth, trickling down the tiled floor of the porch.

We were holding you everywhere we could.

And then you whimpered one final sound, and my niece — who came back all joyful — turned pale. You shrank (was that even possible?), then shivered, and then you lay limp, your left foot still tuck between my fingers.

Your eyes were open, but empty. I tried to close them, but I couldn’t stop the shaking of my hands.

And then you left us.

—

I rushed upstairs to my room and found Nami on the floor, waiting patiently, in the same position as I left her.

I walked to the corner, next to the pile of clothes that’s threatening to cover every available space, and slunk down. Forlorn, unthinking.

Nami hobbled over to me, as though she knew exactly what was happening. As though dog souls can communicate with each other; as though Lucky’s soul reached her faster than I did, and told her what had happened.

Nami sat on my legs, head resting on my chest. I was whispering, “He’s gone, Nami.” repeatedly against her fur. She put her broken paw on my right arm, as though she was consoling my pain with hers. She would look up at me every time I would choke on a sob, and she would lick the trail of tears that was now freely falling from my eyes.

I wouldn’t have known they were falling if she weren’t drying them up.

—

They say all dogs go to heaven, Lucky, and I’m sure as I’m typing this you’re already there. Finally free from the bigger dogs who would usually bully you and eat your food, finally able to eat all the bananas and breads you want. I remember your second night here at home. They gave you a little bed to sleep on, but you chose to sleep in the nook between my shoulders.

You shivered every time a breeze would pass by.

You were relentless. You would stare at my brother’s koi at the pond, and would always be the first to run when I whistle for treats. I remember always being cautious every time you were curled up and asleep — you looked more like a black rock then a dog.

You were very, very young. And maybe it was the stress of the New Year’s that got you (you were screaming when the fireworks started, just after sunset), or the fact that your vaccines weren’t complete yet, but you left us too soon, Lucky.

But I believe in heaven, and I believe there are no firecrackers there. No sudden noises that leave you crying and shaking, no air pollutants that clog your airways, no gunpowder that might accidentally be left in your trail.

I hope you’re way happier up there than you’ve ever been down here. Up there pain is nonexistent, and the people probably won’t mind that your favourite thing to do is to bite their ankles. Up there people won’t laugh at you for being aggressive, or overly hyper.

Say hi to everyone up there for us, okay? And don’t lose your tummy.

You really are your obese mother’s pup.

—

“About that which you have heard, dear heart, that the soul once departed from the body vanishes and feels nothing, I know that you give no belief to such assertions because of those sacred and faithful promises given in the mysteries of Bacchus which we who are of that religious brotherhood know.

We hold it firmly for an undoubted truth that our soul is incorruptible and immortal. We are to think (of the dead) that they pass into a better place and a happier condition…” [Plutarch to his wife, 80 A.D.]