The Lady and The Man

It was so terribly cold. Snow was falling, and it was almost dark. They walked side by side without saying a word. The man was carrying the blanket. The lady was carrying the shovel.

Christmas lights, some flashing red, green, and gold, others twinkling soft warm white, were draped across the veranda eves. An inflatable Santa holding his belly in a silent, jolly ‘Ho, Ho, Ho,’ stood in the neighbor’s yard. Blow up Snoopy beside him napping on the roof of his doghouse. A duvet of snow kept them both warm. Yesterday they were festive.

Porsche was not well and the lady knew that.

The lady had taken her out for a pee the week before and Porsche tipped over on her side. Stiff-legged she landed, stiff she lay, like a fainting goat with floppy ears and a white-tipped tail. Stunned stiff. But Porsche wasn’t a goat she was a beagle and beagles aren't supposed to tip like that.

Picking her up, panic, like bile, rose in the lady's throat. She suppressed the desire to vomit. Like a baby, she carried her beagle inside. Together they dropped on the sofa where worry covered her and a blanket covered Porsche. She nuzzled her face into Porsche’s fur. It was soft and warm and good. Porsche licked her fingers, her tongue was soft and warm and good.

Porsche’s eyes looked at her. “Hey lady,” they said, “ you okay?” because that was who Porsche was, a dog always concerned about you being okay.

“I don’t think I’m okay today girl.” the lady whispered into a floppy ear.

Porsche shivered slightly, laid her head on the lady's lap, and closed her eyes. She’d been doing that a lot this past week. Sleeping and peeing, and that’s what the lady told the vet that afternoon, “She’s peeing a lot.”

“Bring me a urine sample and here’s an anti nauseant.” The vet girl said. The blonde, twenty-something shoved a thermometer up Porsche’s rectum and Porsche licked the vet’s hand as she did so because that’s just who Porsche was, a gentle soul.

The lady followed Porsche around with a plastic container the hour after that. When Porsche squatted she’d tuck it underneath. The third time was successful. The urine looked bad. Dark, rotting, and festering something sinister. She sealed it up and drove back to the vet.

They held it up for inspection. “This doesn’t look good,” they mumbled and tagged it for tests. The wait started.

Porsche wouldn’t eat.

“But she always eats.” The man said.

“I even tried bacon.” The lady said.

Porsche lay between them as they watched TV. The lady with her left hand on her head caressing an ear. The man had his right hand on her back, stroking her tail. They didn’t speak, worry escaped only in sighs. His heavy. Hers shallow. Porsche panted.

The next morning the lady clipped on the leash and they went for a walk. Porsche trotted happily beside her. 'Perhaps the worst is over.' She thought. Porsche looked up at her, blinked then stopped to pee by Jolly Santa’s foot. She swears she saw the dog grin. The lady felt confident that the illness was finishing its course and she lay more bacon on the floor when they returned home. Porsche sniffed and turned away.

She stopped drinking water that day.

“She hasn’t had anything to drink?” The man repeated her words.

“Nothing at all, I’ve been syringing water into her cheek.” The lady replied.

And Porsche lay between them as they watched TV. The lady with her left hand on her back stroking her tail. The man with his right hand on her head, caressing an ear. They didn’t speak, worry escaped only in tears. His silent. Hers profuse. Porsche licked the salt from the fingers used to push them away. Her tongue was soft and warm and good.

On day five the vet called. " A urinary tract infection, please come by for antibiotics.” The lady dropped everything and drove madly. A half-hour later she was shoving a tablet down Porsche’s throat helping her dog to swallow it with syringe after syringe of water. Porsche gagged then swallowed then lay down and slept.

“So she’ll get better then? The antibiotic will clear her up?” The man asked hopefully.

“So they say!” The lady smiled.

And Porsche lay between them as they watched TV. The lady with her left hand on her head stroking her cheek. The man with his right hand on her leg smoothing the hair to her feet. They didn’t speak. Hope brings an easy heart. His happy. Hers relieved. And Porsche’s eyes closed in an uneasy sleep.

The man kissed her. “Have a good day,” he said, and to Porsche, he nuzzled her neck and whispered, “you too little one.” Porsche raised her head and tried to lick his cheek.

“Drive carefully.” The lady said.

The man stepped into the dark cold morning, lunch bag clutched in his left hand, coffee mug in his right.

The clock on the mantel ticked. Moments of time marked with a steady, rhythmic pulse measuring the invisible. Snow fell gently but firmly, a flake occasionally tapping like a fingernail on the window pane. “Look up, look out,” it beckoned. The lady did as requested. The sight breathed peace.

A Christmas tree in the corner softly lit the room. A wisp of air turned the angel hanging on a branch. Painted porcelain with white feather wings, a gift from the lady's mother six Christmas’ ago. Twinkling light bounced off crystal prisms hung by green hooks and bulbs in gold and silver reflected back images they saw within the room. A fire burning gently. The lady sipping coffee on her worn leather chair, reading. A little beagle with a hint of hair turning white around the brow of her eyes laying on a pillow by the fire. A morning that was soft and warm and good.

Porsche panted. She arose from her pillow a little restless and walked a circle in the room before returning to her spot in front of the hearth. She lay for a moment then stood up again and wandered the floor once more.

Fidgety after a week of stillness was curious and the lady laid her book on her lap and watched.

Once again Porsche stood and paced the floor, circling and then returning to her spot by the fire. She shifted uncomfortably and rose, paced yet another circle then sat by the foot of the Christmas tree.

It was as if someone called her name.

“Porsche, Porsche, over here girl,” Porsche turned her head up toward the silent sound, alert, eyes steady, gazing into the unseen. She sat that way for only a moment. The twinkle of tree lights cast a halo behind her. The angel on the tree branch above her head still gently moving and the clock on the mantle marking time, tick, tick, tick. Porsche’s eyes stayed fixed on the invisible, staring intently ahead.

"Porsche, here girl," it called again, and Porsche leaped toward it. She leaped so hard she leaped right out of her skin.

In a blink she was lifeless.

Her fur coat folded on the floor.

It was so terribly cold. Snow was falling, and it was almost dark. They stood side by side without saying a word. Sorrow escapes only in moans. His full of despair. Hers, full of anguish. The lady bent over and covered her with the blanket. The man stood up and covered her with dirt.