FRIENDSHIP VS. THE LAW

FRIENDSHIP vs THE LAW

The vet straightened up. Took a deep breath and looked at John.

‘You were right to call me over. And you’re right about his arthritis. He’s in a hell of a lot of pain.’

John looked at his old friend. The classic country vet. Green Wellington boots, tweed 3-piece suit and deerstalker hat which lay on the hall table.

‘Time to go?’ It was more a statement than a question.

‘Definitely. At least we have that option.’ As he busied himself with the battered case, looking for the tools of his trade, he said  Y’know, John, sometimes I think we’re kinder to our pets than our relatives.’

John nodded. ‘OK. Go ahead.’ He knelt down beside the best gundog he had ever had. ‘Goodbye, my good and gifted friend. And thank you.’ Apart from a brief effort to lift his head, the dog was content to remain lying on the floor.

After the vet left in his old Land Rover, John took the dog over to a special corner of his large garden and buried him.

He stood, in remembrance of many years of his friend and team mate on shoots throughout Scotland. The vet’s last remark lingered as he went about the business of the day. In the evening he visited the garden corner once more. He sat on the wrought iron bench and gazed at the mound under the Rowan tree.  

The next morning he went about his daily routine. Retired and fairly wealthy, he considered himself fortunate. He had never married. He took his tea and toast to the window seat and looked over to the garden corner. It was about this time that the dog would limp from his basket and join him. He looked at the dog’s half empty bowl. He wouldn’t be needing to fill that.

He switched on his computer and read the ‘online’ copy of the newspaper. Disinterested, he began to review his life. He didn’t play golf and had few friends. Still active, he found solace in books and writing. Out of habit, he got up and bent to pick up the dog’s bowl. Then remembered and put it into the rubbish hatch. He wouldn’t need that. Again, the word ‘needed’ brought him back to his new situation. He had always been useful. Now there was no need – even from his dog. He had no use.

It began to rain. He switched on the radio; he refused to have a TV license on principle. Also, the politics in his country made him feel physically ill. As he dressed, he listened to a woman analysing why so many young people were depressed. He switched the radio off. He didn’t need it. Like him, it had no purpose. Not now. Again, the vet’s remark flitted through his mind. And stopped. He knew what he had to do.

‘Just  go in, Mr. Stewart’. The nurse nodded to the ward door hosting the number ‘9’; it was slightly ajar. John pushed it open and recoiled at the smell of medication combined with the inevitable smell of a human vegetable.

The body of his friend lay in the foetal position, eyes wide, his hands clutched in fists under his chin. The slight, shuddering rise and fall of his upper body indicated life, such as it was.

John approached the cot. He knew this was his last chance to be a friend. He also knew he must not think about what he was about to do. Just do it.

He bent over the cot rail. Taking a handful of blanket, he pressed it over the gaping mouth and shrivelled nostrils. There was little resistance; a quiet shudder and his friend’s life ‘such as it was’ ended.

John straightened up. After a while, he realised that he did not have any feeling of guilt. He didn’t really care. Whatever happened now, he had done the right thing, the useful thing in his book – and, more importantly, the book of his friend. He walked out of the room.

As he paused at the front desk, the nurse looked up. ‘Was he asleep?’. With a slight pang of guilt, John took advantage of the innocent error. ’Yes. He was.Thank you.’ And passed on, through the revolving door and into the freshness of a downpour. Now, he must go and report his actions at the police station to ensure no one else was involved in the inevitable investigation.

He leaned against his car and looked up into the leaden sky. The rain drummed on the car roof. But, as he straightened and searched for his car keys, he thought the sound changed; he had heard it before in many foreign lands as he had completed his performance. Applause. Clapping of hands like a large wave crashing on the beach. Thunder of seats turned over as people stood in ovation, cheering, shouts of ‘Well done’. Gradually, the sound ebbed away; rain mingled with his tears. He got into his car.

John turned the ignition key and pressed the starter button. The big engine rumbled into life, solid, familiar, comforting. He switched on the wipers and gazed through the windscreen, lost in thought or perhaps lost without thought. The windscreen wipers waved back and forth with a whispered ‘Thank you. Thank you ---‘.  

The judge took little time to deliberate.

‘I realise that you did what you believed to be in your friend’s best interest but the law is the law and I sentence you to 14 years in prison. Have you anything to say?’

John stood. ‘Yes. I did what I did to correct a dreadful wrong. The law requires my friend who served his country well to endure the indignity and shame of a basket case. I rescued him from that state and you should be ashamed of yourself and your profession. Good day’.

The judge looked down at his notes but as John was ‘taken down’ he lifted his gaze and stared into John’s eyes. Was there the slightest of nods and meaning behind the look ‘I agree with you’.

ISS

Kirkcaldy

12^th January, 2020