Rocky's Goodbye

​Rocky’s Goodbye
 
When he stands up his front legs are bowed like a cowboy readying for a fight. Only he can't stand up at all today. The past few weeks he has been falling over a lot. This morning he couldn't stand at all.
 
For ten years he has run around the ranch like he owns the place. I'm quite sure he thinks he does. As he's gotten older he has started having trouble seeing and has taken to barking at anything that moves. He is like an old man yelling, "Get off my lawn!" at every squirrel, leaf or automobile that passes into view. 
 
We have him wrapped up like a burrito in a tan afghan. He can't hold his head up. He get's restless until Ben lays his hand on his head and strokes him. Then Rocky settles right back into his world of oblivion, at peace with his lot. Ben is Rocky's boy. Not that Ben is a boy—he's in his thirties—but I suspect that Rocky still thinks of him as such. They have been together for almost fifteen years. I'd say that Rocky has been Ben's side kick since they moved out to the ranch, but I am pretty sure Rocky would be offended by that. It's clear that in Rocky's mind, Ben is the sidekick: the trustworthy, ever faithful supporter of The Great One. Ben stands in the background trying not to panic as Rocky faces off with a 2000 pound bull whose nostrils are bigger than Rocky's head. Ben scolds him as he ushers Rocky back inside but Rocky doesn't hear him. He is too satisfied at a job well done, assured that his lawn is once again safe from the nasty-little-cow-cow that threatened it.    
 
Rocky struts all over our sixty acre ranch in Montana, oblivious to bald eagles and coyotes who would see his 15-pound body as an easy snack. Ben rushes around after him, tearing out his hair as he tries to keep Rocky out of trouble. Or he used to. Now Ben holds him, wrapped up like a burrito in an extra soft blanket and listens to Rocky's labored breathing, keeping his face close to Rocky's tiny nose so that his smell is there as Rocky drifts in and out of sleep.
 
We've all said goodbye and now Ben just sits with him, holding him, hour after hour as the day wears on. He was going to take him to the vet and have him put down, but the time for the appointment came and went and Ben couldn't get up from his chair. He just sits and holds his dog. Rocky does not seem to be suffering, so waiting it out will be just fine. It was not The Plan but Ben's heart couldn't sign off on The Plan. He couldn't let him go. Not as long as Rocky is peaceful and free of pain. Their time together is too precious. He can't cut that short just because it seems the practical thing to do.
 
So they sit together, hour after hour, as the sun moves across the sky. Rocky is unchanged. But is Ben? Eventually Ben realizes it is dark and moves to his bed. He tucks Rocky against his side and lays with him, eyes open, sitting vigil through the night.
 
By morning, perhaps. Or sometime the next day. It could take longer, but probably not. Rocky is no longer eating, only drinks a bit when pushed. It wont be long. So Ben sits.
 
A couple of years ago, Ben's father died. He wasn't there to sit vigil at that bedside. Last year his grandmother, who had lived with Ben's family all his life, also passed away. He missed that vigil as well. He has grieved around the edges for those two central deaths in his world, trying to find time amidst a busy schedule and a new job to think and feel and cry. But this one is different. Maybe it's because he lives with Rocky. He was two thousand miles away from his family when those losses came. He wasn't part of the day to day decline. He didn't watch the end approach as he has here. Maybe it's because he feels responsible for Rocky in a way that one doesn't feel for one's parents or grandparents. Maybe it's because Rocky is close to him in a way that no other creature has ever been.
 
Ben takes off of work. He stops and he sits. This is what grieving should be. This is part of the death process that we so often miss in today's disconnected society. It is a part that we need to process the loss that death brings.
 
Ben lays beside Rocky, Rocky's little body pressed up against Ben's bigger one. Ben's hand rests on Rocky's side and he listens to his best friend breath, slow and shallow, loud but peaceful. Does he think about taking Rocky camping in Glacier National Park in the middle of a rain storm? Does he think about trying to get Rocky to wear boots during the cold Montana winters, exasperated as Rocky stands stock still, refusing to move an inch while these ridiculous things are strapped to his feet? Or is Ben's mind blank, as he listens to Rocky's breathing and feels his little chest move slowly up and down? Is he perhaps just present, not thinking at all, as he sits with his best friend and says goodbye? Either way, he is there. He sits vigil with his friend, waiting for death to come.