SUN DOG (3)

April graces Christmas, lying on the floor with my twin Godchildren as they position toy cars and trucks all over her recumbent majesty. She is the Princess of Dogs. She graces my birthday, posing for a picture with family and friends, as much her family and friends as mine.

On the afternoon of my birthday, December 30, Scott and I dig a hole. The hole is three feet in diameter and three feet deep. It is located so she can see the house, it is formed so she can curl up in the bottom, it is underneath the bird feeder so she can ride herd on the squirrels.

The Mortality Meditation of digging a grave colors the afternoon. April lies in the sun up against a freshly raised pile of red central Virginia earth. It's cold and due to get colder, that is the motivation for the hole digging. Make a hole before the New Year turns the ground to iron. April suns and looks southwest, black fur sucking in heat, watching the humans struggling with tools, going deeper and deeper.

I've taken to sleeping downstairs so she can wake me easily. The dog is dignified, puking in the house is one thing, acceptable behavior to her, but house training from puppyhood runs deep. House training commands a trip outside in response to diarrhea. There are many trips outside.

At first she wakes me by barking. As her disease progresses and her energy ebbs she wakes me by standing next to my head. I hear the music of her dog tags. I sense her standing presence. We take a 3:00 am trip under a waning moon. Forty-three pounds.

The time comes when she can't make it outside, she is racked by spasms of diarrhea in the kitchen. I've got to tell you, I really don't care. I am a cleaning person. I did diapers for years, I've cleaned up adults in the hospital. I really don't care. In former occupational incarnations I was a repair plumber and a farm worker, I have shit stories you wouldn't believe. I don't care about the shit. But she is giving me the look.

As I sing to her, cleaning up this not so bad mess she is giving me The Look. Am I Timmy? "What is it girl?" No. I am not Timmy. I can't effectively anthropomorphize, "and the look means". I am not the Universal Translator. She is looking at me. And I don't see "let's walk". I don't see "give me some food". I don't see "water". It is a new look summoned up from the dog soul, a new look to me. "Let me outside, let me go, release me from our contract." Euthanasia comes from Greek. It means good death. Death is good as punctuation to suffering.

Good death in April's case comes at 2:00 o'clock on a Wednesday afternoon. I call Nancy the vet Wednesday morning, asking if she made house calls. She is supportive, "for this we do."

How will the world end? "Not with a bang, but a whimper." And how will the dog end? Forty-one pounds.

She wags her tail when Nancy walks in the room. I am there. My lovely ex-wife, the best human friend, is there. Anna knows how I feel about the dog. Nancy talks to April, socializes, looks at her gums which are white, speculates on the level of April's hematocrit. This is a dog with heart, she is Everydog, takes a lickin' and keeps on tickin'.

Am I Jesus or am I Judas. Hell, I am Bill and this is my good dog April and I am letting her go in the cold first week of the New Year.

April's nest is next to a radiator, it's a foam mattress, covered with a cotton blanket, beneath a window dumping north light into the room. Nancy finds a vein, inserts a small gauge catheter. Gives April a sedative. We sit around April in a semi-circle. A big dose of Phenobarbital follows the sedative and April, the life in April, is gone.

Fifty years ago, when the owner and builder of my house died, he was "laid out" downstairs, in the northeast corner of the room. Black crepe ringed the front door and neighbors visited. And so it is with April, minus the black crepe. My daughters visit. My next-door neighbor visits.

Even though the Christian God doesn't officially recognize dog souls I read His words. April rests in place for 24 hours. I play music by one of her humans; I play a recording from a 5:15am dogwalk last spring, mockingbirds singing in civil twilight.

Thursday afternoon marks her Pharaonic burial. She is surrounded by food and water for the afterlife, in her grave are favorite t-shirts donated by her friends, my Godchildren each give her a special toy. I swaddle April in a cotton sheet and two blankets. I say good-bye. I heap red earth on top of her. She is gone to ground.

I am five dogs old.