The Tail End of a Prince-Ass

When I got home last night, I started crying. A twenty-eight year old man…crying. It was from looking at Katie. My dog. That’s the name she came with. I would never name a dog Katie. Same goes for a cat or bird or any other member of the animal kingdom. But no matter if her name were Katie or Spot or Dog, as soon as I saw her, I started…yep. But it wasn’t because of Katie that I was crying. It was because of Zoe.

Zoe. Now that’s a good name for a dog. Delightfully cute without coming off grotesquely adorable. Simply stated, befittingly suitable Zoe. She was why I was crying. Because she was dying. And by 7:00 tonight, she will be gone.

And yet, she doesn’t even know it.

If she did know. If she did understand that she would soon be venturing north towards that big rawhide in the sky where fire hydrants decorate the streets and dinner tables are furnished with scraps of Filet Mignon, she’d definitely at least try to show some sort of cognitive awareness. Maybe request a last meal. Say some heartfelt goodbyes. Or ask for a pillow. Or some pills.

But not a gun. Zoe is not the type to off herself with a gun. She’s a lady. A princess. Prince-Ass as she’s so graciously referred to by Katherine, the woman who birthed me. The Prince-Ass would probably request a pawful of uppers. Followed by a smattering of downers. And then, as best she could since, let’s be honest, she’s a dog and was born without the convenience of opposable thumbs, she would mix the two “‘ers” together, lie down and solemnly reminisce until the synapses stopped firing.

No. Wait. Prince-Ass would never do this herself. She would get Benjamin to do it for her. Benjie, the man married to Katherine. My father. She would request his assistance. And he would do it. Anything. Anything for his princess. Not Prince-Ass. There she would recline, her paw draped over her forehead, declaring, “I dare not live another moment in this corrupted, ravaged body. Benjamin, won’t you fetch me my pills so that I might end this embarrassing spectacle and die with whatever dignity I might have left?” A sixty year old man with arthritis has never moved so quickly.

She was fine a month ago. When we all met up for Thanksgiving. She was fine. Acted fine. But inside, she wasn’t fine. She was dying. But nobody knew. Not even Zoe. And Katie, well, Katie was only concerned with leaving no traces of that beef-flavored bone behind. As was Zoe. Now, she doesn’t want to chew on anything. Or get up. Or discuss the difference between socialism and communism.

She never did.

What she would want to do is stare blindly out the window at the backyard. Her backyard. Her fenced in playground. At one time a young fertile landscape, now just a bad metaphor for a balding man.

“I remember when I was a child,” she would state. If she could talk. She can’t. But if she could, she would say, “I remember as a child when the cool night air would tickle my underbelly. I would stare off into the darkness wondering how a mutt like me was lucky enough to end up in a place like this. And then, I would trot inside and accept my treat. I’ve led a very fortunate life. If only I had mated.”

And she did. Well, not the mated part, but the fortunate section is correct. Her life was very blessed. Is. She’s still alive. She still hasn’t swallowed the “‘ers” yet.

Blessed isn’t the right word.

Spoiled.

Rotten.

Prince-Ass.

She was treated like an only child. Even though she wasn’t one. In fact, if you open up Benjie’s wallet, you won’t find a picture of me or my brothers or even the other two dogs that trotted around the house. None of us grace the walls of that man’s wallet.  But we all know who does. We all know whose portrait does sit neatly tucked inside, corners never creased, not a smidgen of faded color. Hers. You will find one of her. Stoic. Uncompromising. Zoe. It’s the same sober stare from the watercolor painting that greets you upon your arrival to the upstairs portion of the house.

But this was ok, for she was the daughter Benjie never had even though it was Katherine who bought tiny little dresses and planned sweet sixteens in her head. Zoe was bought for my brother, taken care of by Katherine but pampered and adored by Benjie.

We don’t have many stories. She was just the family dog. Although she did eat a five dollar bill once and then passed it a day later, still fully intact. Katherine cleaned it off and used it. Somewhere, someone is making a transaction with a piece of currency that has passed through the bowels of a living creature. But aside from that, she really wasn’t destructive enough to warrant her own novel or even screenplay. But she was ours. Which is just as good if not better.

No, it is better. She provided what any dog or cat or, yes, pet of the animal kingdom or even reptile or insect if you’re in to that sort of thing, could offer: unconditional love. And that’s what she got. It’s what she gave. It’s what we’ll always be left with.

I will miss knowing that the mere mention of my name will send her flying down the stairs or perk up her ears even if I am 1,000 miles away. I’ll miss her snorting. Her look of undeserved pretentiousness. Acting like she was too good to sit or shake. Because she was. And her laugh. I’ll miss her laugh. Kidding. She’s a dog. Which means she truly was and always will be our best friend.