The Last Day

The text is from Violet.

It reads, ‘It’s going to happen today. Can you come right now?’

I react, without thinking, grab my jacket and keys. I call work as I walk down the street.

The call goes to my manager’s voice mail.

I say, ‘Yeah, hi, it’s James. I won’t be able to make it in to work today. There’s an emergency.’

Everything feels like it is functioning. My mouth is moving, my brain is feeding it words, my heart and lungs are feeding everything oxygen, my mouth and nose are feeding them. It’s a seamless machine.

Only then, I take a breath, and this slick high-level operation goes ‘click’ and stops.

I say, ‘I have to-‘

And no words come out.

I feel like my body has seized. Like, there is a clasp in my chest that has snapped shut, tight, and now there are no more words and no more oxygen.

‘… There’s an emergency. I will call back later.’

I end the call, and text Violet to tell her I am on my way.

Her reply reads, ‘OK.’

I walk to the local train station and wait on the platform.

When the train comes the carriage is empty. Rush hour is already over. I stare out the window.

* * *

The adoption centre is overwhelming.

I can see this reflected on Violet’s face. She looked happy when we arrived, then she looked surprised and emotional. Now she looks like she’s in shock.

She says, ‘There are so many.’

Her voice is low. She is practically whispering.

I say, ‘Yeah, I know. But we need to try and keep a grip here. We can only take one.’

‘Don’t you find this upsetting?’

‘It IS upsetting. But you know, we also get to save one of these little fellows.’

‘Save?’

And she says ‘save’ in a way that conveys the enormity of the emotional weight that she can feel all of the un-saved dogs placing on her spirit.

I say, ‘Yes.’

There are rows and rows of cages, all full of dogs, nearly all of them staring out through the bars, wagging their tails and looking hopefully for rescue. A lot of them bark, or whine, plaintively.

Somehow the ones that are not looking hopefully for rescue are even more affecting. Some of the dogs just lie on their side, they barely register what is happening. They look tired and defeated.

It is overwhelming.

I stand and stare and try not to think about all of the awful things that might have happened to these dogs. I try and think rationally. We can take one dog with us, and this one will be safe.

Violet is walking slowly. I bring myself up next to her, and put my arm around her waist. She rests her head on my shoulder and we walk along together.

We stop and look at a terrier, a friendly, lively little thing that hops up and down on the spot. We both like him instantly.

I say, ‘But what if he’s too energetic?’

‘I think that’s cute.’

‘I think it’s cute too, but that’s not what I mean.’

‘Well, what do you mean? Do you not want a cute dog?’

I can tell that she has already decided: this is the one. We have paid for it and taken it out to the car and are on our way home and into our new lives as dog owners.

The terrier is cream coloured, with mottled spots. He was animated as we were passing, now he sits expectantly, and looks at us.

I say, ‘I mean, I will be at work all day, and you will be at uni. And we only have a small backyard. I’m not sure he’ll want to be cooped up all day.’

Violet looks at me hatefully.

She says, ‘So that’s it then? We’re going to condemn this little guy because he’s TOO ENERGETIC?’

The unsaved dogs weigh on her spirit, and say, ‘Take us all!’

I say, ‘We aren’t condemning him. Someone else with a bigger yard, or more free time, or both, will take him home. He will be happier.’

‘This is unbelievable.’

But I feel like she can see what I am saying, and maybe agrees with it. We move on.

As we are walking, an RSPCA volunteers approaches us.

He says, ‘Hi guys.’

The volunteer looks like he is about 12, but is probably more like twenty. He is tall, and thin, and has close cropped hair and a benign, friendly, expression.

‘Can I help you at all?’

Violet says, ‘Well, maybe you can. We want to get a dog. We’d prefer a big dog, maybe. Like, one that wants to play. And… well, ideally with a calm demeanour. I get…’

Violet pauses, looks at me under her eyes, unsure.

‘… anxiety. Sometimes. And I thought, we thought, a big, calm, friendly dog could help me.’

The volunteer nods at her. He smiles.

He says, ‘Of course, I can show you a few dogs that would be perfect.’

We follow him through the maze of cages, trying to keep it together.

The volunteer stops in an area where the dogs are larger. There are a few Labradors, a couple of German Shepherds, an Alsatian, and some mixed breed dogs.

Violet instantly finds the one that she loves.

She says, ‘Oh my god!’

There has never been anyone that could fall in love with anything, in less time than Violet. She is already kneeling in front of the cage, excited. I join her.

The dog she has picked this time is a Rottweiler.

The volunteer says, ‘This is Taryn’.

Taryn sits in the middle of the cage and looks steadily back at us. She is not large for a Rottie, and her coat is entirely black, no brown patches at all. Her tail has been removed, and the stump sticks out on the concrete floor of the cage, like a little black thumb.

Violet says, ‘Hi Taryn. Hello lovely. Why don’t you come over and say hello?’

As if she has understood exactly what has been said, Taryn gets up and walks over to the bars. She stands there, looking very composed, while Violet reaches through and starts patting her head.

Violet says, ‘Hello beautiful.’

I look at Taryn and she turns her head to me slightly, fixing me with a pair of chocolate brown eyes. In her all black face they seem huge.

Her look says, ‘I know you.’

A part of me knows her look is not saying that. That there is no way the dog thinks this, or could be trying to tell me it. This is clearly my imagination.

A different part of me thinks, with 100% certainty, that this is exactly what her look is saying.

We take Taryn to a grassy area, that has been set aside so prospective dog owners can play with their prospective dogs. Taryn comes along compliantly at the end of a lead. When we get to the play area, she sits down.

The volunteer takes her lead off and encourages her to move around.

Violet says, ‘C’mon girl. Run free!’

Taryn sits.

She has a serious, solemn look, which I am really enjoying.

The volunteer informs us, ‘Well, Taryn has had a bit of a tough run. She was rescued from a bad situation. I won’t go into the details, because they are upsetting, but a lot of people only view Rottweilers as fighting dogs. They abuse them and try and force them to be aggressive. They’re actually a lovely breed. Very gentle. People don’t know.’

'People don't know', echoes in my mind. This seems important.

We all look at Taryn, who continues to sit. She looks quizzically at the other dogs in the area, like she doesn’t understand what they are doing. There about five running around, barking excitedly.

The volunteer, perhaps guessing that we are concerned about her lack of activity, says, ‘She’s being quiet now, but in the right home I think you would see a different side of her. She’s just waiting, for the right people.’

It’s a good sales pitch, but it is unnecessary.

I could tell after five seconds that this was THE dog. Taryn was waiting for us.

We go back to the office and go through the formalities. There are a few papers to sign, and we pay the $100 fee. The office clerk informs us that an RSPCA inspector will come by our house in two weeks’ time, to confirm the dog is being looked after properly.

We also buy a red lead and a collar with little rubber studs on it. Like, punk-rock studs. We put the lead and collar on Taryn, and then take her out to our boxy little Toyota.

Taryn walks slowly, but shows no objection to coming along. And she climbs in the back seat without much prompting. She lies down, and puts her head on her paws.

On the drive home, Violet wants to talk about her name.

She says, ‘I don’t really like the name Taryn. And I think we should give her a new name anyway. Like, this is a new era in her life, so she should have a new identity.’

I nod and say, ‘Do you have any ideas?’

‘Well, what about Sookie?’

I laugh, ‘What, from that stupid movie?’

‘It’s not stupid! And you said you liked it, so now you’re just being a pain.’

A few weeks prior we had seen a movie called ‘Igby Goes Down’, at the Palace Cinema in Leichardt. An indy comedy, about misfit kids, in New York. Violet had fallen instantly in love with one of the characters, Sookie Sapperstein, played by Claire Danes; a cool, worldly wise girl with a fabulous, grunge-chic wardrobe.

I say, ‘I did like the movie, but not as much as you did. I mean, c’mon, it’s not that good!’

‘I think you’ll find that you said you loved it, at the time. Now you are just trying to wind me up.’

‘No. I am voicing my opinion.’

‘Uh-huh. Well I think we should call her Sookie. It’s a good name.’

I think about this for a minute.

I say, ‘OK, but do we have to use that pretentious spelling?’

I have heard so much about this movie that I know how the characters spell their names.

Violet says, ‘Oh my god.’

‘I do not like S-O-O-K-I-E. Like, can we not call her S-U-K-I, instead?’

‘What difference does that make? They sound the same.’

‘I don’t like that spelling.’

‘What, you mean if you have to write the dog’s name down?’

‘Yes.’

Violet bursts out laughing. She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. She coughs and splutters and really, overdoes it, in my opinion.

When she has recovered, she says, ‘Ok. When we need to write the dog’s name down…’

‘Or if anyone asks how we spell it.’

‘… or, if anyone asks how we spell it, we can say it is S-U-K-I. But, we also have to say that she is named after the character in ‘Igby Goes Down’, a film that you admit you like.’

I think about this for a minute.

I say, ‘Ok.’

‘You are insane.’

But she says it like she doesn’t really mind.

Suki lies quietly during this discussion of her identity. She does not stir at all until we get home, and then only because we chitter at her, and urge her to get out of the car.

She hops down slowly and stands blinking in the street. I think she had been asleep.

The house we live in is a two-storey terrace in St Peters. It has a cream façade, and looks rather prim, but it is a nice simple house inside.

I unlock the front door, and Violet leads Suki in by her lead.

She says, ‘Welcome home!’

Suki looks at her curiously. Then she looks slowly round the loungeroom.

There is a TV, a couch, and a beanbag. Suki looks at all of this, and then looks at us. Her expression is inscrutable.

Violet continues, ‘Come and see your beddy!’

She leads Suki through to the next room and here, next to our small wooden dining table, is a dog bed we bought in advance. It is navy blue, and has a paw print pattern on the side. The inside is fleecy, and the white wool sticks up a bit, over the top edge.

Violet says, ‘There you go lovely!’

She leans down and takes Suki’s lead off, and pats the dog bed lining. Suki obediently steps forward, and sniffs it a few times. She lies down.

Violet goes, ‘Yay!’

I put the kettle on, and we have a cup of tea. We sit and look at Suki, who rests her head on the edge of the bed. She looks a bit glum.

Violet says, ‘Do you think she misses the other dogs? From the shelter?’

‘Maybe. She is probably just a bit confused too. Like, what is happening?’

‘Yeah maybe.’

We are not sure what to do next.

After sitting around for a bit, we decide to take Suki for a walk. There is a huge park at the top of our street, called Sydney Park, that has a dog off lead area, so we go there.

Suki allows us to put her lead back on, and walks up the street with us compliantly. Her expression does not change. She seems withdrawn.

Violet says, ‘It’s like she has PTSD.’

I nod, ‘She has seen too much.’

Sydney Park is a big, green open space, mostly grass, a few trees, with a lake in the back corner. It is the only decent sized park anywhere close to this part of the city, so it is always busy. People jog, ride their bikes, play with their kids. There are a lot of other people walking their dogs.

Suki’s demeanour doesn’t change. She walks at my side, keeping pace with us.

Violet says, ‘Well, we can probably let her off. I mean, she seems very placid.’

‘Yeah ok.’

I bend down and click the lead, and then stand back.

Suki takes a few uncertain steps away from us, as if to test that we are no longer physically connected. She sniffs the air.

Violet says, ‘Good girl!’

Suki starts to trot, away from us.

I call out, ‘Suki.’

She runs away from us, picking up pace.

Violet and I exchange panicked looks, before we start running after her.

Violet yells, ‘Suki! SUKI!’

Suki breaks into a proper run, faster than we can go, and streaks away.

She runs in a remarkably straight line, like she is a missile that has been fired at something. Her trajectory takes her across the grass, then up one of the park’s gentle slopes. She is twenty, thirty, forty metres ahead of us.

She races up the hill, crests the ridge at the top, and disappears from sight.

We both yell, ‘SUKI!’

It’s only a minute later when we get to the top ourselves, but she has already disappeared. We have a pretty good view of most of the park from here, the rest of it is mostly flat, but our dog is nowhere to be seen.

It seems impossible, but she is gone. It all happened so quickly. We are both puffed.

Violet gasps, ‘Fuck.’

‘C’mon we’ll find her. We can ask people if they have seen her.’

‘People will be scared of her, because she is a Rottie.’

‘We’ll find her, don’t worry.’

‘I AM FUCKING WORRIED.’

We hustle down the other side of the slope and split up.

For the next two hours we comb the park. We run up to each person we come across, describe Suki and ask if they have seen her. Most of them have headphones on, and are only marginally attentive. Many seem annoyed that we have interrupted what they are doing. Some are sympathetic, ask questions, try and think of helpful ideas.

No one has seen Suki.

We zigzag back and forth across the park, and check it several times over. We walk around the lake, climb back up the slope where she disappeared, check the roads that form the park’s boundaries.

Violet starts to cry.

She says, ‘I knew we would fuck this up.’

‘Maybe we should check the pound? Or, the local council? She is registered, someone will hand her in. Let’s go home and make some calls.’

‘Or someone will grab her and try and force her to be a fighting dog.’

‘That won’t happen.’

‘It did happen, already.’

We walk slowly back to the house, in silence.

Suki is sitting on the doorstep.

She wears the same patient, composed expression she had on at the RSPCA. She does not seem surprised to see us.

Violet runs up to her and wraps her in a big hug, and cries with relief. Suki looks at me over her shoulder with her large, chocolate brown eyes.

I open the front door and we all go in.

I say, ‘How on earth did she find the house? She has been here once, for five minutes.’

‘Because she is special.’

Suki walks calmly back to her bed and gets in. She lies down and rests her head on the edge. We sit down, cross-legged, on the floor next to her, one of us on either side.

Violet pats her head, and I stroke the smooth, flat black fur on her back.

And, after five minutes of this, she rolls slightly onto her side, and settles comfortably. She goes back to sleep.

***

The door to Violet’s house is dark green, and is flanked either side by ragged couches. I knock, and after a few seconds, Violet opens the door.

Her face is flushed, and her eyes are puffy. She has clearly been crying.

‘Hi.’

She takes a step and reaches forward to hug me.

I step back, so I am out of reach.

An instinct. I moved without thinking. I am not even sure why, not really.

She says, ‘Fucking hell. Really?’

I say, ‘Hi.’

Violet exhales audibly through her mouth.

There is a pause, and then she says, ‘There are times when I really dislike you.’

‘Yeah? Well there are times when I really dislike you.’

But Violet can’t keep this up. She is clearly upset, and not really with me, even if I am behaving badly.

I can feel her deflate, the angry feelings slipping away. I instantly feel bad for being a jerk.

She says, ‘Just come in.’

I nod and follow her inside.

Violet’s house is large and rambling. A long central corridor runs the length of the place, with rooms exiting to the left and right. We walk along this to the kitchen, which is cluttered. A big pile of dishes is clustered in the sink, and unopened mail is scattered across the table.

Beyond the kitchen is Violet’s bedroom.

Violet says, ‘She’s in here’.

Gathered around her room are Violet’s housemate, Sally, Violet’s boyfriend, Matt, and her mother, a tall, nervous woman who looks a bit like a stork. All three of them glance up when we come in, but only her mother says anything.

She says, ‘Hi James.’

‘Hello.’

Violet’s bedroom is overstocked in a way that I remember. There is a queen size bed and a leather couch and armchair, all far too big for the room. Shelves and a desk line the walls, and every flat surface is covered; dirty clothes, knick knacks, more letters, junk. The floor is dotted with more dirty clothes, and stacks of books.

But one spot on the floor has been cleared. Suki is lying there, in her old blue dog bed, with the paw print pattern on the side.

She also looks up as I come in. But instead of her usual sober, composed expression, I see something else. She looks distressed.

Violet sits on the bed next to Matt, who puts his arm around her. She looks at the ground as she speaks.

Violet says, ‘She has been much worse the last week or so. The vet has seen her a few times. He says… the cancer is…’

Violet stops talking.

Matt hugs her.

Violet’s mother says, ‘There’s nothing much they can do now. They were thinking about another operation, to remove the growths, but they weren’t sure if she would survive another one. And even if she did, they thought the chances of success were low. So it seemed… cruel, almost.’

My mouth has gone dry.

Suki has stopped looking at me. She has put her head down on the side of her bed, in a way that I know so well.

Violet’s mother is still talking but I don’t want to hear any more. The details seem unimportant.

I hunch down and rub Suki’s head.

There is a big, white bandage on one of her back legs, from her previous operation. Otherwise she looks much the same. She has a few white hairs on her chin, and a small number flecked throughout her coat.

Suki suddenly starts to whine.

I say, ‘Is she ok?’

Matt says, ‘She might want to go out. She hasn’t been to the toilet today.’

Violet says, ‘She… can’t get up anymore. Without… help.’

Every word is an effort.

Matt and I go over to the bed and pick Suki up, and cradle her between us.

She whimpers.

Violet says, ‘Be careful, she is in a lot of pain.’

Violet’s mother opens the sliding door that leads onto the back porch, and we carry Suki down the steps to the lawn. We right her and place her gently down.

Her legs stretch out, and gradually accept her weight. And then she is standing, unsteadily, under her own power.

Violet says, ‘Go on girl.’

Suki stands there, looking a bit confused.

Violet puts her hand on her neck and very softly urges her forward.

Suki takes a step, walking with a pronounced limp. She hobbles slowly over to a tree near the side fence. We wait while she does her business.

Violet says, ‘We should take her back in, I think.’

Matt says, ‘You don’t want to leave her out here a bit longer? She loves this garden.’

Suki’s brow is furrowed. She is holding her bandaged leg so that the paw is above the ground. Just the tips of her toes are touching the grass.

Violet says, ‘She wants to lie down.’

Matt and I gather her up again, and carry her back into the house. We lay her back in her bed. She looks calmer, but doesn’t look comfortable.

After ten minutes, the vet arrives.

He is about thirty, and wears a flannel shirt and a pair of jeans. His assistant, a younger woman, wears a plain dress and has her hair tied back. Violet’s mother lets them in, and they introduce themselves.

The vet’s name is John, and his offsider is Kelly.

The vet says, ‘I know this is a very hard decision. A very hard day. But I have been treating Suki for a few years now, and I do think this is the right decision. There aren’t any good options left, and this is the best of the bad ones. It’s really just one final kindness. The last thing you can do for her.’

Violet is crying properly now. Her body shakes.

The vet explains that he is going to give Suki two injections.

The first is a sleeping agent, so that she will be unconscious. The second will stop her heart.

He says, ‘She won’t feel anything. No pain or anything. She will just feel drowsy, and very quickly she will be sleeping. It won’t feel any different, to her, than any other time she has fallen asleep.’

No one says anything.

Like we have arranged it in advance, although no one has spoken, we all take turns sitting next to Suki so we can tell her something, while the vet gets ready.

Violet’s mother says that she changed Violet’s life for the better.

Sally tells her how she knew straight away, from the moment they met, that they would be friends.

Matt tells her how much he will miss walking her.

Violet tells her she loves her.

I do not know what I am going to say.

I sit down.

‘…’

No oxygen. No words.

Then, just as suddenly, I realise I am talking. It’s like someone has cranked a valve open, and behind that is a mass of stuff, and now it’s all pouring out.

‘... I think about this day, in summer, a couple of years ago, when it was my turn to look after you, and we drove down to Lorne to go to the beach. We stopped at one of those mega service centres along the freeway, and I bought a large popcorn chicken from KFC, which we shared. Like, I would eat a piece, and then I would hand a piece back between the front seats, and you would eat it out of my hand. We went through the whole box like that. Then we drove down to the coast, it was just outside of Lorne where we stopped, some beach with no name. I went for a swim, and you pranced back and forth on the beach barking, because you don’t like waves, even little ones, so you wouldn’t come in the water with me, but you were envious of me swimming, so you barked. Then we went for a walk, and I threw a tennis ball for you to chase, and we played these little games with the ball, and ran around. The day was just perfect. It was high twenties, no clouds, a deep blue sky, you could hardly imagine better. The beach wasn’t crowded, and we lay in the sun after that. I read my book and you snapped at flies, and then we both went to sleep. And then it was late, and it was time to head back, and we got in the car and I put some music on, and the sun was setting, the sky going pink, as we drove along the coast road…’

Suki lies still. Her eyes are on me.

‘And I just remember this feeling. I remember it very clearly. Like, THIS was a day. Like, we lived our whole lives that day. And maybe it was unremarkable, but it was a day that I will never forget. I think about it all the time. I can remember every detail.’

I am crying now.

‘And I would give anything… I would give fucking anything… to go back and live it again. And I can’t believe there will be no more days like that one.’

I sit back. I do not register anyone else’s face.

The vet and his assistant unpack a bag. They get out the syringes, a couple of small bottles, a few bits and pieces. It only takes them about five minutes to get ready.

The vet says, ‘You can hold her. You can pat her and keep talking to her.’

But Suki is not that big, so besides the vet there is only space for Violet and myself.

We sit, on either side of her, and both of us put our hands on her.

Violet cries silently. Her bottom lip bites her top lip, and her face is screwed up.

The vet says, ‘I am giving her the first injection now.’

I look into Suki’s large, dark eyes. And I can feel her looking at me, in a way that I now know for certain is not my imagination.

And then I put my head down into her fur, and I wrap my arms around her. Violet is hugging her as well, and so we are sort of hugging each other. Our arms touch and we are both grabbing her tightly, in a way that I hope isn’t hurting her, but it is the only thing that I can think of to do.

The only thing that feels right is to grab her as tightly as possible.

Violet is saying something to her, but I cannot make out the words.

I am saying, ‘I love you so much. I will never forget you. I will miss you so, so much.’

I say it over and over.

The vet says, ‘She is asleep now. I am giving her the second injection.’

And now I hug her as tight as I can, because that is the only thing to do. And it crosses my mind that I would be hurting her now, because I am hugging her too tightly, but she is beyond pain, and she will never feel any bad things ever again.

‘I love you so much. I will never forget you.’

The tears pour out of me. I have never cried like it, before or since. It is like a tap has been turned on.

Behind the tears I can feel this empty space, this absence of anything.

My eyes are shut.

I am in a dark place.

After a period of time that could have been any length, I hear the vet say, ‘She is at peace now.’

My arms feel like dead weights.

It is really difficult to pull myself away.

I don’t want to.

I can tell that Violet has removed herself, and now it is just me.

Suki is still warm. She is still soft.

She feels like she did when she was alive.

When I open my eyes, she will be gone.

I stay like that for a long time. And then I feel an arm on my shoulder. I open my eyes and see that it is Violet.

She pulls me to her and we hug, properly, tightly. We both cry some more, although the fierceness has gone out of it now.

I say, ‘You gave her a great life.’

‘You did too.’

We have been broken up for years now, but, since then, we still saw each other every week, whenever I came over to pick Suki up. And while we didn’t do much together, we would sometimes have a coffee, and chat, or even walk the dog together.

Suki was our last connection, and now she is gone.

And I realise that this whole part of my life, the part marked ‘Violet’, which has been a really big part of it, is closing forever. Suki and Violet and Violet’s mother and this house will no longer be part of my days, they will all just be in the back of my memory somewhere.

I do not want to look at Suki, but I force myself to.

She lies still, on her side, her mouth slightly open. Her chocolate brown eyes are open as well. But they are empty now.

I can’t look at her for long.

The vet and his assistant wrap her body in a blanket, and they carry her out to their van. They have both obviously been crying, you can see the tear tracks drying on their faces.

We follow them out and thank them. They drive off.

I say, ‘Jesus, what a job.’

‘We’re going to have the body cremated. We’ll scatter the ashes in one of her favourite parks. I'll let you know.'

I nod.

‘What will you do now?’

‘I don’t know. I might go for a walk.’

‘You’re welcome to hang around if you want? We’ll probably get some food. I haven’t been eating much lately.’

‘Thanks, but I don’t think I can. I just… I really want to be outside.’

We stand quietly for a moment. The vet has gone and it is just the two of us now, out the front of Violet’s house.

I say, ‘I’m going to go. Say goodbye to everyone for me? I can’t go back in.’

We hug, although not as intensely as before.

And I smile at her, or we smile at each other, and then turn away.

I walk out the gate, and up the street.