What Money Does | One

Photo by Grace Kendall

I’m 12 years old, at a friend’s house for a sleepover. We’re laughing in her bunkbeds and doing hair on her lifesize Barbie hair model, and I am just coming to terms with the fact that I will never get the hang of French braids when her mom comes in.

“Your dad’s coming to pick you up, Gracie.”

“Huh? Why?”

“He didn’t say. Just said you had to come home.”

I immediately feel sick to my stomach, and tears begin to prick in the corners of my eyes. What had I forgotten to do at home? What chore was left undone, and now my dad is on his way here in a rage? My mind races trying to think of what it could be.

I quickly pack my bag and head to the front steps of their trailer to wait for him. When he pulls in, he is grim and straight faced. I climb in the truck and say nothing, waiting tensely for what will come next.

“Don’t you want to know why I’m picking you up?” he says sharply as he pulls onto the road.

“Did I do something?”

“Huh? No. It’s Laddie.”

Laddie is our dog. An elderly collie who follows me into the woods when I go fishing and lays on the bank of the brook while I catch trout.

“He was sick this morning,” my dad continues, “He couldn’t get up.”

There is a long pause, and my dad chokes out a short cry, barking it off at the end the way men do.

“I had to put him down.”

At the house, I tumble out of the truck and follow my dad inside, where my mom meets us, teary eyed.

“He’s up back. We’re going to bury him, and we thought you’d want to say goodbye,” she says as my dad walks past her, straight through the house, and out the back door.

Mom and I follow, trudging up the back pathway into the woods to a clearing where all our pets are buried. Pooka, our first collie; Tassa-cat, our Maine Coon Cat stray-who-stayed; and now Laddie. There is a wheelbarrow already on the side of the path on the way to the clearing, and I see a shapeless mound in it, covered with a green wool army blanket.

I walk past the wheelbarrow and head to the clearing before my dad stops me, planting a hand firmly on my breastbone and pushing me back.

“Don’t you want to say goodbye?” he says roughly, and eyes the wheelbarrow. He pulls back the wool blanket, and I see Laddie. His mouth is slightly open, his gums dirty and pale. His eyes won’t close, and they look to the sky with a sludgy softness I wish I could forget. There’s a bullet hole in his side. Right behind the front leg. Through the heart, like where my grandpa taught me to shoot deer. His thick fur is matted with blood, but not as much as I expected. He is still recognizable. He is still Laddie. I wish I could have said goodbye.

. . .

I am 35 years old. My dog, Myra, hasn’t been feeling well for three days. On the first day, I wait it out, knowing that she is a weird eater and sometimes will go off her food. So I watch her, coax her with treats, and give her lots of water. When her lack of appetite is accompanied by vomiting the next day, I bring her to our vet, where they do a fecal test and an abdominal x-ray to check for blockages. Seeing nothing, I pay my $400 bill, and we’re sent home with antibiotics for a suspected gastroenteritis-causing infection and told to watch her and call if she worsens. The next day, she’s worse, and we head back in. It’s barium x-rays this time, to see how fast things are passing through her intestinal system. Everything passes. Still no clues as to what is wrong with her. They inject subcutaneous fluids to keep her hydrated, since she’s also not drinking much now, and we’re sent home to let her rest. She climbs into my truck slowly, with a hump on her shoulders from where the fluids will settle. $190.

A day later, I call back and tell them she’s worse. She can’t even keep water down now, and this usually energetic dog is having trouble standing. They tell me to take her to the emergency vet an hour away. I leave work early with well-wishes from my boss, and I discuss surgical options with the e-vet. They think they see something in her stomach x-ray— a stick, maybe — and they want to do an exploratory procedure, but it’s expensive and not guaranteed. I give them the green light and put down a half payment of the suspected total, dropping $2,800. Late that night, after surgery, Myra crashes, and they call me wanting to know what life-saving measures to take.

“Do whatever you need to; we love her,” I tell them, gathering my keys to drive down to be with her.

Although Myra never wakes up, and I never make it even past the dark backroads of my town before they call to tell me, I know I did everything I possibly could have. Still, I wish I could have said goodbye.