The hardest part about it all was waking up the following morning without an immense weight crushing my legs.
I woke up to the sound of my alarm and for a second everything felt normal. The annoying beeping stopped as I reached over and slammed the top with the palm of my hand. My eyes felt heavy.
"Hey Arthur." I mumbled as I wiped my face with the back of my hand.
There was no response.
A cold shock ran through me and I felt a wall of dread slide down my stomach and my neck. My bed, a double bed, was empty save for myself and the room was still. Only the ticking of my clock broke the silence.
There would be no kisses this morning, I realised.
Something in my chest twisted into a knot and I looked over at the empty dog's bed that lay facing my own. The soft brown pillow was empty, with a dog shaped dent imprinted into it. A little elephant toy, its fur slicked back and patchy with use, sat by itself on the edge. The smile on its face felt like a cruel joke.
I slipped my feet out of bed and into my slippers. Both of them were there today.
In all honesty, I felt completely and utterly shattered. The skin around my eyes felt sore from being rubbed too much and the back of my throat ached in a way that only happens when one runs out of tears to cry.
My hand reached out instinctively for the toy and I picked it up carefully, as if it were made of glass.I cupped it between my two hands as I crouched down beside the bed and pressed it to my forehead. It felt scratchy but it also felt like nothing. Emotionally, I was too numb to really feel anything.
How long I stayed there, I don't know, but at some point I must have placed it back down because I found myself standing in the doorway of the kitchen with no memory of how I had got there.
The clothes I wore were the same as yesterday's and my hair hung down in front of my eyes. Moving it out of the way would've been too much effort, so instead I looked down at the floor. A strange dizziness formed in my head, like a rogue storm, and I gripped onto the counter for balance. I made my way along it, taking small steps until I had reached the bread cupboard. With no energy to do anything else, I opened it and took out two pieces of bread. It had already gone stale but I decided nothing mattered anymore and I placed them into the toaster.
My phone, which was still in the pocket of my jogging bottoms, buzzed. It was Mum. There were several missed calls and messages asking if I was doing ok. I didn't know how to respond so I put my phone back into my pocket, feeling slightly guilty.
A few minutes later the toast popped up. There were so many steps involved in the toast making process and I felt my eyes beginning to sting as the size of the task loomed over me. So, instead, I opted for the easy way out. Raw toast. A true delicacy for the hungry man. Only, my appetite had ceased to exist yesterday in the vet's office.
The blindingly bright white lights still shone into my brain and the smell of bleach was still fresh in my nose. It didn't feel real, none of it. I wish it wasn't.
In the end, I didn't manage to finish the toast; I didn't even manage to finish half. I left the plate on the counter. Washing up could wait.
After a quick drink of water, oddly refreshing, I found myself heading towards the downstairs bathroom. On the way, I passed the utilities room. That was a mistake. That's where I used to feed him. He used to sit there, waiting, as I carefully measured out his 100g of food and, towards the end, would mix it together with water. His bowl sat upside down on the draining board and I realised it would never be used again. Twelve years of use, rendered useless in a matter of minutes.
That is all it took for my best friend to slip away from me.
I had made sure to hold onto his paw until the very end; I had wanted him to know that I was there for him and that I would never ever leave. My hand had clasped tightly (but not too tightly) around his, as if I could have held him here forever. All I wanted was for him to be out of his pain. A guilty part of me wanted him to stay, but the louder, rational side knew that it was the kindest thing I could do.
There comes a point in a dog's life in which you realise that they've become an old man or lady. In Arthur's face, I could see the exact moment. It was a Monday evening, the start of the week, and I had just returned home from work. I had sat myself down with a beer and Arthur had wobbled over to me. It was the first time I saw how much grey was actually in his fur. That was several years ago now. When the first white hair appears, you think nothing of it. Sometimes, you even laugh.
"Me and you both, buddy." You say.
But when that one white hair becomes two white hairs, and those two white hairs become three become a group – that is when it hits you. The little snow coloured patch under the chin that shows up when they lay their head in your lap, eyes fully trusting, and the little clouds that surround their paws, sticking up like daisies.
All stages of the most fatal disease in the world – aging.
I would do almost anything to turn back time.
People, we are a selfish species, we always want what we can't have.
When he was a tiny puppy he was a true licker. He was an explosive licking bomb with a waggly tail and a wobbly walk. I remember feeling overwhelmed at some points because he wouldn't stop biting and it felt like he would never be potty trained – I wanted him to grow up.
Over the years I got my wish. I got it too soon. Dogs don't know another life – we are their everything. We are, to quote Stephen King, their "shelter" and their "food giver". We are everything they need in their life and they love us in the most pure and unrelenting way that only a dog can.
Such sweet and innocent creatures. A smile appeared on my face as I thought of the look Arthur used to give me when I returned home from work. His eyes would glow and he would jump off the sofa holding his elephant teddy proudly for me to see. He never did fully lose his puppy wiggle, and it would all come back in these moments of excitement – his tail spinning so fast I thought he would be lifted into the air.
I remember the first time he met my mum as a puppy and he fell asleep on her lap, his chunky puppy paws hanging off as he slept in a little, warm ball. Even as he grew larger, his body finally catching up with his ears, he liked to lay across her for as long as she'd permit.
It was clear that Mum was one of his favourite people in the world and he was one of hers, too. She affectionately called him her "grandson" and made sure to always buy him his own cards for all of the holidays – something that made me laugh.
But I get it now. I understand. He is my family as much as he is my friend. My best friend. And he made me the happiest man alive.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone. This time, I pressed the dial button. My mum picked up in seconds.
She didn't say anything at first, I think she was waiting for me to speak.
"Hi, Mum." I said, a lump forming in my throat.
"I'm so glad you called me." She replied back and I thought I heard a slight wobble in her voice. "I've been so worried."
"Mum, can you come over, please?"
She said that of course she would, "You're my most precious gift", and after a few gentle exchanges, the call ended. Mums are like that. Especially my mum. I know she would give me the shirt off her back and I would do the same.
"I love you." I whispered to the dog bowl. "I love what you've done for me and I hope wherever you are, you're in peace. Rest easy, my friend."
