It will soon be two years since I put my dog Elsa down. Today, May 11th, is her birthday. She would have been 17. I wrote the below piece to get through the difficulty of losing her. I wanted to share it with you.

It was 7:43 a.m., I heard the barking so I raced downstairs. The sulfuric smell hit me like a brick. She just looked up at me.

“Let’s go out.” I picked her up. Her urine was all over me, but worse, it was all over her.

I turned on the light and saw the bright red. I knew today was the day.

I had tried to do it twice before this week and canceled.

“Sweetie, let’s take you to the front yard, so you can relieve yourself like a lady.” I always told people she was a chocolate lab. Truth was I didn’t know.

“You’re a Puerto Rican princess just like me, aren’t you?” My grandmother found her near death on a farm in the mountains of Puerto Rico. Abandoned and abused. She was one of the few to survive. “Who knew you would make it to 15?”

I put my hand on her head as I dialed the number that had become all too familiar.” Shaker Animal Hospital,” the voice on other end said. “I need to make an appointment to euthanize my dog.” I heard quiet, then a faint “I’m sorry.”

All I remember is the tsunami of emotion. “What’s her name?” the young man asked. “Elsa” I said as tears rushed.

“We’ll see you at 3:45 p.m.,” he said as he hung up. Everything stopped. Only silence.

Go to the gym. It’s 9:33 a.m. Running, lifting, sweating, working, striving, pushing in 90 degree heat. Better than sitting in the beautiful beginnings of the day, making the decision to end my best friend’s life.

Class is over. So early. Only 10:27 a.m. I stop at Stewart’s for a vanilla ice cream cone with rainbow sprinkles. Her favorite.

I open the garage door. “Hey Girl, are you waiting for me?” She cocks her head. Even though her body is rotting away, she opens her mouth and smiles.

“I have a surprise for you.” Still wet with urine, I rest her down gently at my feet as I take my seat on the stoop. Our spot.

My puppy returns as she gobbles.

“Should I have been more patient? Could I have loved you more?”

She grins with satisfaction as she finishes. I decide to take her on our last adventure. I load all 60 pounds of her onto the backseat. It’s almost as if she knows. It’s almost as if she too is looking forward to 3:45 p.m.

As I drive, I turn around and see she has her head pressed against the seat.

“Are you okay?” I don’t know if she is tired or in pain. I remember how she used to hang out of the window. Alive with the wind against her face.

We arrive. It’s bright green, sticky moist, and hot. The gnats greet us. Jumbo bumble bees hovering. The grass hasn’t been cut. Lush and long.

I settle for the red picnic table by the rainbow windmill. I take out her bowl and poor her some fresh, cold water. She just looks up at me. She then closes her eyes, and puts her face in the direction of the wind.

I follow her lead. Just listening. Feeling. Thunder strikes. I open my eyes. Darkness starts to set in on us.

“Elsa, it’s time.” We head back home. Time is moving distinctly faster.

We arrive. We have just over an hour. I carry her upstairs and rest her on the rug.

Without even taking the time to make ourselves comfortable, we fall asleep.

My alarm goes off. It can’t be time yet.  It’s 3:20 p.m.  We can’t be late.

“We’re Elsa and Lauren Rivera,” I tell the young man at the front desk when we arrive. He was the one I spoke to this morning.

“Please take a seat in the waiting area,” he says without making eye contact.

Such a big dog sitting on my lap. People smile. Although I couldn’t see her, I’d like to think she was smiling back.

They come out with a gurney.

“I’ve got her,” the technician says. They’re so serious and grab her away from me.

“Please don’t rush,” I plead.

The doctor comes in. “You can take all the time you need.”

“Let’s just do it.” I hold her as they inject the needle.

She won’t look at me.

“She’s gone,” the doctor says. It’s 4:03 p.m.

No sound. Just numb noise.

I’ve changed my mind. We can wait. It doesn’t have to be today.

It happened too fast. The day. Her life. My life.

Buen provecho!

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