Between the Lines: A Father, A Son, and America's Pastime

Gus is gone now. She died at about 12:30 this morning.
Last week, the vet gave her an injection of B vitamins and steroids so she could have a few final good days with her. It worked, which is why Saturday just was not the day to let her go as we had planned.
On Monday she slowly gets weaker, and now struggles to breathe. We wonder how she is even hanging on. We talk about her at dinner each night.
“Sam, have you told Gus it is okay to go?” I ask.
“No.” He is not ready for that yet.
Cathy and I explain how living beings, even pets, seem to hang on for a long time for the sake of others. They seem to know when those they love are not ready to let go. We explain that she is in a lot of pain and she is probably ready to go. Once that happens, she will be happy again in doggie heaven.
Gus does not walk much anymore, and it takes some effort. We are surprised as she appears at the kitchen door. Sam slides out of his chair and walks over to her. He whispers in her ear loud enough for us to hear, “Gussie, it’s okay to go if you want to.”
That evening we sit by Gus as she lie on her favorite spot on the cool tile next to the front door. A friend gave Cathy the book Dog Heaven, which she reads out loud. Again, Sam tells her she can go. He gives her a card he made for her. While patting me on the back he hands me a card with a picture of Gus that he drew.
“Daddy, it will be okay,” he assures me.
At bedtime we tell Sam that Gus may not make it through the night. If she does, we might need to let the vet help her since she is in pain. In his pajamas, he walks over to her, still lying in front of the door. He pets the top of her head.
“Gussie, if you want to go before I wake up, it’s okay.”
Just after midnight, Gus struggles to the door as she always does when she wants to go outside. The second day I had Gus she walked to the back door of the small house where she and I lived. I check on her, then turn around and walk back into the living room. She then walks to the front door, waits a moment, then starts to pee. I jump up, grab her and take her outside. Undoubtedly, she thought that if we humans were a little smarter, this potty training process would go a lot faster. Even on her last night with us, barely able to walk, she asks to go outside. Cathy opens the door. Gus takes a step on to the porch where she collapses.
The next morning Sam wakes up and walks into the living room.
Not sure how he will react, I say to him, “Sam, Gus died last night.”
He looks up at me and smiles. “So she is in dog heaven now?”
“Yes, she is.”
The time we had with Gus is very special, even those final few days. She was able to go here at home. Although difficult to watch, she was not denied her the dying process. We all learned a lot from each other.
She is buried in the back yard with the stone plaque with her paw print that Cathy made a few days ago. The Dog Heaven book said she might pay us a visit to make sure we are okay. I hope so. I wish there was some way she could let me know she made it to doggie heaven.
In the mail the following day we receive a package from Cathy’s father. Upon opening it I see it is a puzzle of what looks like Gus as a younger dog, sleeping in front of a fireplace. Lying next to her with his head on her side, sleeping soundly, is what appears to be Sam in his blue pajamas with the feet in them that he claims are his race car driver suit. He has the little smile that he wears when he sleeps. Even the dog’s lips are slightly upturned in what looks to be a smile, just like Gus used to do.
“We received the puzzle today,” Cathy informs her father on the phone. “Where did you have that done?”
She has a look of surprise and confusion as she listens to his reply. “Are you serious?” she responds.
She hangs up the phone and I ask, “How did he have that done? Did he have to send in pictures of Sam and Gus?”
“He said he found it at Wal Mart,” she explains. “He thought it looked so much like Gus and Sam that he thought it would be good timing to send it to us.”
Thanks for the visit, Gus. I’m okay; you can go now.