The death of a Pet

Molly.

I walked around the block today.
I passed the park in which I used to meet my friends during summer.
I looked at the old man that was always sitting there, morning to evening.
He had round broken glasses and his hair and beard reaching his chest.
He didn't look up at me.
I kept waking.
I have been much more careless with myself lately, not having the energy to put effort in my appearance.
I walked slowly, looking aimlessly in front of myself.
I got home.
It wasn't the same without my dog.
She used to rush me in places, make me test my strength to not let go of the leash.
It was me and her playing a sort of tug of war. She'd grab her leash with her teeth and puff at me if I stood too much in place or walked too slowly for her.
When we were between the streets, I'd let her loose and she'd run ahead then come back and so on, so on.
Last week, she wasn't running or acting all happy.
She was barely walking.
We couldn't finish our walk.
She sat down halfway and looked hurt.
I'm not the strongest, I never was one for sports, but still, I was worried.
She wouldn't budge and started sighing.
I crouched down and looked at her.
She didn't raise her eyes to look in mine, but she seemed hurt.
She acted strangely before as well, but I thought a walk would get her to feel better.
I put my hands underneath her and picked her up in my arms quite hardly.
She was a big dog.
I'm 1'76cm. She reached above my knees.
I carried her home.
I barely managed to open the door and set her on my bed, not caring about her dirty paws.
She laid there, taking in breaths at very distant intervals of time.
I called my father.
I never got along with him except when it came to our taste in music.
I told him what happened.
He told me to touch her nose.
I did and it was warm.
He told me to wait there as he called the vet.
I started worrying.
It's unusual for me to overthink, but only the worst outcomes flooded my brain, making me start crying.
I put my hands on my dog's face, cupping it slightly, since I couldn't grab it all because her right side was resting on her front legs.
My father called me back and said he'll pick us up and get us to the vet.
He arrived after 14 minutes.
I was checking the time endless.
I don't know why. Maybe to make myself think it was passing by faster or get the fake feeling of having some control of this situation.
Father came upstairs and grabbed my dog much easier than I did.
It was almost like nothing to him.
We rushed through the cars to get to the vet as fast as we could.
They examined my dog.
I was told to wait outside.
After about two hours of endless pure torture of being unfilled on what's happening, they came out.
They told me she's sick, like I couldn't tell myself.
They told me she has been prescribed medications and talked to my father more about her problem.
I asked them to tell me what they've told him, but father refused to let them do so.
We went home.
I was mad.
I wanted to know what was wrong with my dog that I've had for only 6 years.
Why she was sick.
Why she wasn't eating anymore.
Why no one told me anything.
I was angry and frustrated.
I tried feeding her but she wouldn't budge.
If anything, she looked more exhausted that before.
She fell asleep, I think.
I wouldn't know, she kept her eyes closed too much, but at least now her breaths were more regulated.
I went to the kitchen and I closed the door.
I didn't want to disturb her.
I lighted cigarette after cigarette, letting out my emotions out again.
I was tensed up and felt like this was just a big nightmare.
I wanted it to be one.
Two days passed and no improvements were made.
We took her back to the vet.
They've told me they had to put her down.
I didn't accept it.
I started crying. I couldn't stand anymore and I crumbled down.
I convinced my father to go to another vet and get a second opinion, but they told me the same thing after seeing her records and after another 1 hour of them checking up on her.
I'd be lying if I wasn't desperately praying to God to not take her away so soon and filled with hope of her surviving whatever was going on with her.
They called me in, with a syringe already ready.
They assured me it would be quick and pain free.
That she'll pass peacefully.
My father agreed.
I felt back stabbed.
They couldn't kill her. My dog. My friend. My fucking baby, they couldn't take her from me.
I was out of breath and my head was throbbing.
My eyes hurt when I moved them.
I honestly wish it was me that was dying, not her.
Anyone but her.
Please, God. Don't.
I felt a hand on my shoulder, but was too desperate and heartbroken to look up.
My father pulled me into a hug.
I pushed away after a few seconds of him rubbing my shoulder reassuringly.
He tried reasoning with me, but I wasn't fine with it.
But what could I do?
I couldn't run away with my dog.
I walked over to her and put my hand on her back, smoothing her white fluffy fur.
I hugged her close and she rested her head on my arm.
The vet slowly came forward and pierced her skin with the syringe's needle.
I cried harder, even if I was running out of liquids to produce tears and energy to have myself wail the amount I was.
He slowly pushed the deadly substance in my beloved companion.
She died in my arms.
I wanted to scream as the vet said they're sorry for our loss and muttering meaningless words of reassurance, that wouldn't help with shit.
The drive home was torture.
I was crying non stop, to the point I fell asleep in the car of exhaustion.
Her dead body was sitting in the backseat.
When we got there, my father picked me up and walked me in my room, like he did when I was a little kid.
I continued sleeping.
Meanwhile he dug a grave in our backyard.
I woke up with a throbbing headache, a dried face and stuffed nose.
It was all real and happening.
She's dead. She's fucking gone and it was my fault.
I could have been more careful and take her to the vet monthly, rather than yearly, like I did.
I hated myself and still do.
I walked outside my room because my throat was so dry I couldn't even cry anymore without it hurting.
I felt miserable.
I got a glass with water.
I then went downstairs.
I saw my father sitting down in the dirt with his head between his hands and his chest going up and down.
I think he was crying.
I walked outside to confirm that he indeed was also unable to not shed tears.
I sat down by him and he informed me he told my grandma about the death of out dog, which made me break into cries again.
He told me he's already digged her grave and asked me if I wanted to fill it.
I felt like I should have done everything from the beginning, so I took his offer.
It was one the most painful things I had to do.
To see her there in the dirt, curled up and lifeless.
I threw the dirt over her body as fast as I could to not see her anymore, taking breaks from time to time to cry again and rest my head against the shovel since I felt like I was about to fall over.
After that, I didn't take a shower, just blew my nose and cried myself to sleep at around 6pm.
I kept waking up in the middle of the night, which was just more torture for me.
I kept taking walks around the block after she died.
I don't know why I torment myself this way.
I used to hope to reach peak fitness by running around with her.
No more of her pulling me after her.
No more of me teaching her tricks.
No more of going to dog parks and bonding with other dog owners.
No more of her jumping on my bed.
No more pictures to take of her and put in a frame.
No more of me washing her and then getting wet because she shakes herself dry.
No more of anything.
I looked blanking at the red carpet, that still had some of her white hairs in it.
I haven't gone to high school since it happened.
I probably won't go for another week or so.
Father said I need to rest and accept it, but get over it.
I miss her.
There's not a single night in which I don't cry until I fall asleep and wake up countless times during the night.
I don't understand why it had to happen.
It seriously tore a piece of me.
I miss her so much.
I avoid going in the backyard and passing her grave.
I really do miss her and this is so unfair.