Two Brothers
I’m driving to the vet with Winston, my 14-year-old Bichon riding shotgun. His off-white hair is curled and matted. Traffic is heavy, mostly stop-and-go on this weekday afternoon. Tomorrow, I’ll be grateful for this sea of cars. I’ll look back and appreciate the few extra minutes I’m getting to spend with him. And I’ll be filled with regret knowing I didn’t take advantage of the last car ride we would ever take together. He lays on his side in the passenger seat, breathing heavy. His tiny body curled up as his chest rises and falls. Winston is scared of cars so I rest one hand on the wheel and the other on his neck. I rub the back of his ears and tell him not to worry, but he looks off to the glove compartment not acknowledging my comforts.
Winston hated car rides. The day we brought him home for the first time, he was just a puppy. He was so scared on that first drive home that he threw up all over the back seat. That was in the third grade. My family had another Bichon puppy, Oliver, that we’d all agreed was lonely. The family went searching for another dog and was told that Oliver’s mother had a new litter. When we visited her, one puppy stood out from the others. He was smaller than the rest but was bursting with energy, running around in circles between our legs like the most energetic, fluffy sheep. We brought Winston home that same day to meet what would become his life-long partner, Oliver.
Oliver was like a wiser, older brother to Winston. He would look out for him. If Winston was a little hungrier he would step aside and let him finish of the rest of the food. When they played fetch, Oliver would put up with Winston completely ignoring the tennis ball, and biting at his ears. The two napped side by side curled up next to each other. If I saw one but not the other I knew something was wrong. Most often I would find Winston trapped in the bathroom trying to claw his way back to the safety of his brother. It was a beautiful, loving relationship that lasted until it couldn’t last any longer.
Traffic is clearing now. Winston picks his head up and sniffs the air. I glance at him and smile as he lays his head back down between his paws. My throat tightens. I swallow hard and push a thought further back in my mind. That same thought I had earlier today while laying on my bed with Winston. He was in pain and couldn’t lay still. Restless. I held him close and pet his back. He curled up against my stomach and shook. I tried to make his pain go away, but all the love I could show him did nothing. I kissed the top of his head and told him it would be okay. But it wouldn’t, and that thought I pushed back now crept in for the first time, then.
I spent almost every night for fourteen years sandwiched between Oliver and Winston. My parents kept the two in the garage during the night. They didn’t want them roaming around the house destroying everything while we slept, which made a lot of sense. What made more sense to me, though, was them sleeping on my bed. So every night after my mom and dad went to bed I would sneak out to the garage and let them up into my room. Those small, white, fluffy dogs would jump on my bed and lay with me all night. Sometimes Oliver would snore, or whimper in his sleep as he dreamt of whatever dogs dream about. Winston would sleep next to my pillow and occasionally pick his head up to make sure his brother was still there. Then, in the morning when they had to use the restroom, I would open up my bedroom door in a dreamy haze and unleash them into the rest of the house. And then fall back into my bed, only to be woken up by angry calls from my parents about how they had totally ruined the living room rug.
When I turned 18 and became a legal adult my parents had found better jobs in D.C. I chose to stay in Austin and go to community college. While my parents helped me look for a place, there was a brief discussion of giving Oliver and Winston away. That idea was quickly squashed by me as I told them I really didn’t care where I lived but Oliver and Winston were coming with me. And so I moved into a less than okay duplex with a small yard so my dogs would have somewhere to play. When I moved in I bought a giant dog bed for them. It was this huge brown oversized pillow. And seeing as they were about twelve years old at this point, they spent most of the day sleeping next to each other on it.
Eventually, Oliver began having seizures. It was terrifying and I would hold him in my arms and wait for them to stop. When he came to, Oliver would be completely disoriented. He would run into walls and not know where he was. He was scared. I took him to the vet and something was wrong with his liver. They gave me medication and everything seemed a little better. When I moved into an apartment a few years later the seizures started again. They got worse, and more frequent. When Oliver was a puppy I would sit cross-legged on the floor and he would walk into my lap and roll into a tiny ball and fall asleep for hours. The last night I had Oliver he had a really bad seizure. I was sleeping and woke up to it happening. I sat with him on the floor and when he came to he was whimpering. After stumbling around for a few minutes he slowly walked into my lap, curled up, and fell asleep. He was bigger now, so he didn’t quite fit, but I could tell he was comfortable. I sat there in the middle of my room at three in the morning and knew this wasn’t right for him. I remember sitting completely still until the sun rose, just watching him sleep, knowing that I wouldn’t get this chance again.
I pull up to the vet. My car shifts on the uneven gravel. Now, Winston is more interested. He sits up and looks out the window. He’s developed arthritis in his joints, and can hardly walk, so I never keep him on a leash. I open the car door, pick him up and set him on the ground. The sun is low in the sky and it’s cooler than normal. Winston sniffs around in the grass before I lead him inside the small, empty waiting room. A young receptionist talks on the phone as I walk up to the counter carrying Winston. I explain that I need to have him checked out. He’s still shaking and I pet his back. The girl tells me it will just be a minute and me and my dog sit down in a small blue plastic chair and wait. This room is familiar. It brings back bad memories the same way an old song fills your head with broken hearts.
The morning before I brought Oliver to the vet I took him and his brother out for a walk. Winston followed by Oliver’s side as the two slowly moved along the park. Oliver would sniff a tree and Winston, like always, would sniff the same tree. He didn’t know why he was doing it. All he knew was that his brother was particularly interested in it, and he had to be interested in it too. I wanted Winston to understand, to grasp the fact that he wouldn’t ever see his brother again. But he didn’t get it. He loved Oliver. And so he did everything he normally would, but he didn’t pay any more or less attention to him than he usually would have. It made me sad knowing that Winston really wasn’t understanding what was going to happen. I went back and let Winston inside. He looked back at me as I picked up Oliver and headed for the door. Winston wasn’t used to being somewhere his brother wasn’t, so he followed us to the door. He jumped up and pawed at my knees.
I brought Oliver to the vet and we waited inside an examination room. Because he hadn’t had a seizure since the night before, he was his normal self. He sat on the examination table and rested his side against my chest. Every once in a while he would sniff the air, look at me, and lick my face. His tail would wag and I would smile. When the doctor came back in her face was blank, the way doctor’s faces usually are, and she gave me the bad news. Something about Oliver’s liver count. It would take surgery, and at his age it would be difficult for him to recover. It’s hard for me to remember exactly what happened, but I remember nodding and crying. She left again and told me I could take as much time with him as I needed. Oliver was wearing an orange bandana. I remember that. He’d just gotten groomed and for some reason the groomer thought that bichons and bandanas were perfect for eachother. As we waited in the examination room it was weird. I didn’t know what to do. I had already said my goodbyes. Oliver sat there on the table, in his orange bandana, and looked back at me. I kissed him and hugged him and held him as close as I could for what felt like hours. I just wanted the doctor to come back in and get it over with. The wait was bad.
Eventually she came back in with a nurse; a younger man who carried a small white glass bottle and a syringe. The vet told me to what was going to happen. She said it would be quick, as soon as she injected him, that would be it. No time for anything after that. I was holding back every emotion as hard as I could. To let out even an acknowledgement would mean I would completely lose it. And so I nodded without saying a word. I took Oliver by his sides and rested my head against his stomach. The vet, she asked me if I was ready and I told her I was. I remember he wasn’t scared. Oliver was calm. And I remember he kissed my cheek one last time. I held him so close, closer than I had ever held anything before. The doctor, she took the syringe, I remember seeing it, and moved for his front leg, just between his joint. I shut my eyes tight and squeezed Oliver’s sides. I told him I loved him. He let out a whimper. A heavy grown, and then, in my arms his body fell heavy. I felt his last breath and then nothing. I cried. I cried hard. My tears covered Oliver’s back and I apologized over and over again. My best friend. I held him and sobbed and aplogized. He trusted me completely. He trusted me with his life and I took it away.
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