A Day of Rest

Sidney would always say that Sunday was his favorite day of the week because it's the day of rest. Sunday is my favorite day because it reminds me of how Sidney and I met. I had no idea that it would also be the last day of our life.

We met on the set of my one and only movie. As a young pup with nothing except unbridled energy and the desperate need to please, everything was exciting. The sound of the director chattering back and forth with my handler reminded me of birds twittering in the morning. I loved the smell of coffee on the assistant’s breath as she greeted me with a bright,

“Oh hi, Tux!”

That was what they called me back then, on account of my coloring. All black except for the splash of white across my chest and trickling down my belly. I was cast to play alongside the lead as his faithful cattle dog, a role that was perfect for me considering I was entranced by the dull-eyed cattle that lowed stupidly at the very sight of me. I met Sidney for the first time while I was trying to creep close enough to inspect the rear end of a particularly mulish heifer. The whistle that cut across the heat of the set spun me around to meet a stranger looking right back at me. Even though it was a lifetime ago, I still remember the placid depth of his eyes and patient smile under a mustache like an upside-down comb.

“Come ‘ere, boy,” and I could not help but obey.

My handler sidled up to Sidney as I approached timidly, wringing his hands before this newcomer with his own magnetic field.

“We call him Tux.”

But Sidney did not break eye contact with me as I sat in front of this myth of a man.

“Tux, ya say? No, no, this young pup has on his Sunday best here, see?”

A smile deepened the slight crinkles around his eyes.

“Hey, that’s not bad. Sunday. That’s what we’ll call you.”

That was the beginning of the rest of my life.

After the movie wrapped, Sid bartered with my handler to let him buy me. It didn’t take much, he signed me over for $100 and a photo with Sid. We’ve changed so much since then. His good-natured features have settled into themselves like cracked clay. His eyes still have their kindness but his skin hangs looser along his bones. Sid gets tired easily now.

Our routine has matured much as we have but every weekend follows the same rhythm, just like ants on a branch. I wake up first these days, though it takes me a while to get to my feet. The vet told Sid it was called arthritis, this terrible stiffness in my legs. I think I’m just getting old. I nudge Sid’s weathered hand from where it lays off the edge of the bed covers. He always groans deeply and pats me on the head.

He says, “Go git it, boy.”

I scramble across the hardwood floor, out the doggy door, to snatch the newspaper from where it is laying, warming in the first rays of dawn. The trick of it, as I’ve learned throughout the years, is to try to grasp the paper in your teeth only. Letting your lips droop onto the paper causes the letters to run together like chalk left in the rain. But even if I forget in all my excitement and all of the letters run together in black mud, Sidney pats me on the head as I drop it.

“Good job.” Always.

As he reads it over, I love to watch him and try to memorize the news parts of his face. He tells me I have a “powdered sugar” face now, which is new because he used to tell me I was “goin’ gray”. But if I have a “powdered sugar” face, his must be a sunset face. The yellow tinge of his skin reached his eyes now, turning the whole of him into the faintest shade of gold. The lines of his face are old friends, I’ve watched them branch from the corners of his eyes to the creases of his forehead. His hair has become thin so he wears it cut short, which I know makes him sad. I silently hope I will lose my fur too so he will not feel alone.

After Sid finishes reading the newspaper, he rolls it up and throws it to me. I get to shred it in slivers, which is very satisfying, and then it's his turn to watch me. I wonder if he traces the new reaches of white around my muzzle or notices the sagging skin on my belly. Next is pill time and we both swallow the bitter pod, me for my arthritis and he for the cirrhosis. I don’t know what that is but I know it makes Sid tired. I know it means he has to go to many doctor’s appointments. It also means he has long phone calls with his old mother and that this week, it made him cry when he hung up. I wish cirrhosis was something like the newspaper. Then I could tear it apart and Sid wouldn’t be so sad.

After a quick breakfast, it’s time for a W-A-L-K. I usually try to “go” in Mrs. Higgins mailbox garden but Sid tugs me away, which I don’t understand one bit because he’s always saying she is a “busybody” who likes to “sniff around” everyone else’s business. When we make it to the pond, Sid throws bits of leftover bread to the ducks who crowd him. My job is to growl at any squirrels that try to swipe at their food. I’m very good at that but it would be easier if Sid let me chase them. It sends a better message. Instead, he always clicks his tongue in an amused way.

“Aw Sunday, let ‘em be.”

Secretly though, I know he likes that I still have this bit of puppish-ness. When our shadows become long slices, Sid sucks a breath through his nose.

“About that time, huh?”

That time meaning dinner, I would guess. Weekend dinner is chicken for both of us, grilled on the patio, with a side of bland green vegetables for him. Sid says this is so that we can be big and strong when we grow up. This confuses me because Sid has been growing smaller and smaller lately. I wonder if he needs to eat more vegetables. After dinner, we curl up to watch a Western. We never watch our own, though, because Sid says no need when he has the real deal sitting next to him every day. As the last traces of pink fade into indigo sky outside the window, we shift our creaky bones to bed. Sid kneels at the foot of the bed and I sit beside him to say prayers. Sid always asks God for serenity, I ask for more days like these.

This weekend was different. I woke to the distinct feeling that the room was stagnant and emptier than usual. Sid was not in bed and his scent hung only faintly in the room. I found him sitting outside and the part of his back that showed above the wooden easy chair looked frail and perfectly still. A faint acrid smell interrupted my muddled thoughts and I noticed the strong brown drink in one hand and the newspaper in the other. I nudged his elbow gently, wary of the strange scent and Sid startled. He turned to face me as those final lingering thoughts fled from his kind eyes like tadpoles.

“Oh, hey there, old buddy.”

His voice rasped with a pleasant crackle, like a coarse brush through thick fur.

“What d’ya say we play hooky today?”

My tail was still wagging when we slipped out the door moments later. As we walked, I kept glancing up at Sid whose usually relaxed gait had an extra spring this morning. Mrs. Higgins’ garden looked particularly irresistible and as I crouched over the petunias, Sid did not tug me away. Instead, he met my questioning gaze with a chuckle.

“Well, shoot. If you’re goin’ to do it, you better do it quick.”

As it turns out, Sid was right because just as I finished kicking mulch onto my newest deposit, the creak of the Higgins’ door sent a jolt down both our spines as we hurried away. All Mrs. Higgins would see from behind was the twitching of Sid’s back as he choked on his laughter and a wagging tail, the only proof of my guilt.

The pond seemed particularly serene that morning, though I may have just been riding the high of our latest transgression. The ducks, long accustomed to the sight of Sid with a bag of bread crusts in hand, called urgently as they wobbled across the water to our bench under the elm. That strange stench reached me again, sour and stark, and I wondered if the bread had begun to mold. I was soon distracted from the scent as the squirrels were on their very worst behavior today. How arrogantly they brushed past us, tails bushy with the vanity of false threats. In fact, they were so consumed by their cloak of invincibility that they didn’t even notice when Sid quietly slipped the leash from my collar.

“Go get ‘em.”

I exploded into action, stiff legs lurching towards the now frozen figures of the miscreants. I kept my head low, snapping just behind the heels of the slowest squirrel. This one was fat from weeks of unchallenged marauding, but still a hair ahead of me. On and on we raced, Sid whooping excitedly, egging me on. Finally, I treed the plump thief up the elm tree, still drunk on the taste of justice.

It was then, with a clump of tail fur still hanging from my lip, that I wondered with a jolt whether today was the last day of my life. I heard similar stories from idle dog park chatter about old dogs with a long list of maladies that are suddenly treated to the “best day ever” before they disappear, leaving one less regular in the park. I glanced at Sid’s still amused face and tried to read his thoughts. A pang of sadness raked up my chest as he met my eyes with that strange nostalgic glance. I knew with certainty then: this would be our last day together.

I expected to feel sad or even afraid. On our slow limp back, I mulled over the enormous unknown ahead of me. I had only ever lived one day at a time. I looked forward to my meals and walks, but most of all I looked forward to my time with Sid. I wondered who he would talk with each day when I was gone. Who would bring him the newspaper? Who would keep the squirrels away from the bread scraps when they get too bold? How would Sid know when to rest if he didn’t have Sunday? I felt the toll of the day’s chaos in my limbs, which felt now like rusty wheels without the grease. I wondered if Sid looked at me and saw the age like a creepy parasite that had taken over his best friend. Perhaps he saw death on me as evidently as this sour smell, which seemed to follow us today. I looked up at him now as I hobbled alongside but his eyes seemed to be swimming again. Far away and clouded. For the first time, we were both thinking about Sid without Sunday and the thought sat in sober silence between us for a long time.

As we approached the house, Sid seemed to startle awake and spoke to me conspiratorially out of the corner of his mouth.

“One minute, bud. I think we need to cool down.”

Without another word, he lumbered off behind the shrubs and the sprinkler shot to life, spraying me directly in the eyes with water. In a moment, all transformed to joy. Sid peeled off his shirt and shoes while I danced around the spray on my back legs, trying to catch the water as it arced towards me. For the next half hour, we spun and jumped in the cool water before rolling around in the newly-slicked lawn. Blades of grass and smears of dirt clung to our heaving bodies as we lay back together to catch our breath. Sid leaned over and rubbed my still-pounding chest.

“Oh my boy, what would I ever do without you?”

And there were tears standing in his sunken eyes. They reminded me of those potholes on the road after it rains. I rolled on top of his shoulder to lick them away then decided I might as well cover his entire face because it got him laughing instead of crying. More than anything, I didn’t want him to feel sorry about what would happen to me. I wasn’t afraid of dying, only sad that Sid couldn’t come with me.

For dinner, we had steaks befitting a final supper. Sid shuffled in slice after slice of butter in the pan, searing them to perfection. When we tucked into our meal, neither of us came up for air until the last bite. Sid saw my eyes bobbing with drowsiness, intoxicated by the pleasant fullness of my belly and scooped me up.

“No, sir, not tonight. We have a very special movie feature before either of us turns in.”

He plopped me on the couch. That night, we watched our movie together for the very first time. It was bizarre to see Sid and I’s past selves on the screen, like strangers wearing our expressions. How young we looked! Our eyes were bright with energy and muscles taunt with vitality. I was pretending to be a cattle dog and Sid was the rancher-turned-hero, but really it was just good fun with my best friend. At different parts throughout the movie, Sid would bark with laughter or shake his head in embarrassment. When my parts first came on, Sid winked.

“Now look at that young pup, who d’ya reckon that is?”

But as the closing scene of us walking side by side back towards the ranch panned across, he was silent. The tears were standing in his eyes again. He didn’t look at me when I heard him weakly murmur.

“What a life. Isn’t it-?”

His voice sounded strangled at the end and we sat in silence again. The room was awash in darkness by the time either of us moved again. I was busy imagining myself as a sponge, trying to soak in as much of the day as possible as it retreated. Sid cleared his throat and I noticed that he looked suddenly transformed. His lips seemed devoid of color and the tiredness that wrapped his body inward seemed to age him before my eyes. The smell was back, too. It was time for bed, I knew, and I led him carefully to the mattress before tucking myself in. I shut my eyes and tried to picture what death would look like. Would I know when it was happening? Would Sid be with me at the moment it occurred? Would it hurt? I hoped not, I wanted to be able to focus on Sid and try to show him that it was nothing to fear. Then darkness overtook me like a thief in the night.

That night, I dreamt of our final day together again and again, chasing the curves of the images in my mind. Flashes of Sid’s smile turned its sun on me, a lifetime of joy mirrored across our aged faces so that I awoke with the distinct feeling of warmth across my aching limbs. I thought about what a privilege it is to watch our bodies age across the depth of time, to chase the vigor of youth and appreciate their absence. What an honor to see the value of one’s years measured through the eyes of a friend. In the peaceful stupor of these thoughts, I clamber to my feet and nudge Sid’s hand, as always. This time, it is not warm and yellow but cool and blue, like spring water. And this time he does not pat me and say, “Go get it, boy.”

But that’s ok with me as I sit next to the hand that I love so much. I’ll let him sleep because Sunday is the day of rest.