From Paul Jolly - The Good-bye

July 7, 2009 9:36 p.m.
I sit slumped on the brown leather couch in the family room. The pillows are pushed to the floor. Our other dogs lay close to me as I methodically twirl your dog collar that I have placed around my wrist. It's red with reflective paw prints. It contrasted so well with your black fur. I close my eyes and touch the soft, fuzzy nylon wishing it felt more like your fur so I could keep another small piece of you nearby. Something more tactile. Something more tangible. Something I could hold onto.

My mind rushes through and around the last few hours like rapids over jagged rocks. The rocks, slicing and chopping the water into cold foamy shreds. Mimicking the chaos of my heart.

7:46 p.m. in the car
Why does the seat belt buzzer keep going off? It's poking me in my brain. Trying to scrape my attention away from you.

I hold you to my chest. Your eyes fixed and unfocused. Your blood slowly seeping into my shirt. Where did the other dog attack you? Why is there so much blood? Do you know where you are? No time to check as we speed to the emergency vet. Skidding through red lights. Dodging slower cars. Still an eternity until we arrive.

Under my arms, your labored breathing is rhythmic. Lungs expanding. Lungs deflating. But, ever so slightly. You are still so warm. An S-turn, and your limp body sways as I hold you tight and murmur that everything's going to be okay. A lie, I know.

In front of me, the dark brushed sky is magnificent. "A garnet jewel suspended in an artist's version of a utopian horizon. Violet…salmon…tangerine, overlapping. Painted in wide strokes and reflected in the glistening tears crawling slowly earthward; Already carving lines of sorrow in my stone gray face." Why do I think of these words that I read somewhere now? And I also think, how can this be? Shouldn't the world be standing still? Shouldn't it reflect the dark sorrow of this moment? But I know the answer. We drive on.

8:02 p.m.
They take you from my arms and ask us to wait in an examination room. I get one last glimpse of you as they whisk you away. The metal table in the exam room is so cold looking. Silver. Hard. Unfeeling. Not sterile exactly but antiseptic. Antiseptic in a way a house is that no one lives in. Standing. Sitting. Pacing. Crying. Waiting. Hope is not part of our equation. Not any more.

A young woman ducks her head in the door and tells us the doctor will be in soon to talk to us. Her meaning carried more profoundly in her tone than in her words. Not long now.

In reverent despair we both sink into chairs and lay our heads upon the steel table as if to pray. A universe of love we try to squeeze down…and through sheer will…engrave it on your slowly struggling heart in the next room, and on your soul; so you truly know the vast expanse of what we feel.

The veterinarian tells us how severe your wounds are and that she does not feel that your brain is still functioning. They are breathing for you. There are some things that they could try but fear the result will ultimately be the same. She thinks we should let you go. Time stands still and as if we are walking under water, we follow the doctor to the intensive care area where they have you on a table. You look so small. So alone.

Choked whispers as I stare at your face and stroke your side, trying so hard to be strong, for your sake. "My little Dante." "You're such a good boy." "We love you very much." "Wait for us, and we'll see you again…some day."

The doctor pushes the plunger into your IV and just before the end you give a big breath and I could have sworn you moved your head to look at me. Trying to give me one last sign of the unfailing love and devotion you always had for me and me alone. And it's this that I will never forget.

Operation Alteration will have a special meaning for me this year. This fundraiser is about doing what is best for the companion animals that reside in each of our hearts, now and forever.

There are those that say that our pets are not human so why do we care so much. I don't know about you, but even though they may not be human they bring out our humanity, sometimes in ways that humans cannot. Animals do not worry about fame or fortune, but instead teach us the joy of simple things as well as trust and steadfast affection. What can be more important than that?

And with this fundraiser we have an opportunity to pay a little of that back. Please make a difference. Operation Alteration ends on Sunday, August 9.

Paul Jolly
Executive Director, PETCO Foundation