Noble

A pad of butter bubbled on the griddle. Ground turkey browned in a cast iron pot. On another burner, water boiled. My husband tapped me on the back, handing me a wooden spoon. A hum of voices echoed from the TV in the living room as our spoiled mastiff, Noble lay watching his favorite show on Animal Planet. 

The kids were arriving home soon with the sitter, and the guests would follow. 

Every detail had to be perfect. I delicately toasted the buns then let them sit so they were crunchy and warm but not hot. I reduced the tomato sauce so the acid wouldn’t churn in a delicate stomach. I diced the shallots thin then slowly sweated them down to translucent, aromatic perfection. Himalayan pink salt was ground in a separate bowl for measure. Potatoes boiled in the water until a fork pierced through their starchy flesh. Then I mashed them with parsley, butter, milk, sour cream, and a touch of salt and pepper. The mashed potatoes were scooped into a piping bag, piped onto a silicone baking mat in little stick shapes, then baked into crispy “French fries.”

My husband grabbed Noble’s leash from the closet, patiently waiting for our big boy to meet him at the door. He summoned Noble, “C’mon boy, you can do it.” I watched at the sliding glass door as the two of them slowly paced to the end of the block. 

Noble lay back in front of the TV when they arrived home, and my husband returned to the kitchen, emptying the dishwasher. We heard footsteps and giggles outside, skipping up the driveway. My husband turned to me and said, “I can’t do this.” I wiped a tear from his eye and squeezed his hands.

The sitter opened the garage door and sent the kids running to greet us in the kitchen. My daughter wore a superhero mask she had made out of construction paper and unicorn stickers with a matching red superhero cuff. The baby toddled over with his arms outstretched, so I scooped him up and unzipped his jacket. He squealed and ran into the living room, cuddling up with his furry best friend. 

Moments later, my dad arrived. On his way, he had picked up two large buckets of chicken from our favorite comfort food restaurant, Cluck Buckets. His husband popped in behind him with a bag of sides including mashed potatoes, coleslaw, biscuits and gravy. My husband instructed them to place it all on the dining room table, unopened. My dad and his husband removed their coats, hung them in the cubby, then headed into the living room to join Noble and the kids. My husband tossed paper plates, napkins, cups and disposable wooden flatware onto the dining table next to the buckets. 

My brother and his two teens arrived next. His kids handed my daughter greeting cards they had painted with paw prints from their dog, Lucky. My niece walked into the kitchen and hugged me. Then she searched for a large platter in the pantry to help me plate the sloppy joes. 

A few moments later, my best friend Kim arrived with her fiancé Ryan and a assortment of homemade cookies. I thanked her for baking them and cooed at the spiral arrangement of alternating colors and shapes. Some were round and orange made with pumpkin and the others were square and pale brown with a distinct peanut butter scent. Ryan carried a large blanket, a bottle of water and a box of tissues. My husband gave him a bear hug, patting him on the back as my niece and I finished plating the sloppy joes and crunchy potatoes.

The doorbell rang and everybody stood except for Noble. He lifted his head from the shag carpet and muttered a quiet “uff” at the stranger behind the door. I answered the door, still in my apron. There stood a woman in her twenties with thick, highlighted blonde hair and a gentle smile. She introduced herself as Maggie. I thanked her and welcomed her into our home. I took her pink peacoat and hung it alongside my family’s jackets in the entryway cubby. Her scrubs underneath had little green flowers on them. 

I retrieved the platter from the kitchen and placed it at the head of the dining table, then we all prayed together, thankful for the meal. My husband carried the platter into the living room. 

Ryan unfolded his large blanket on the floor and tempted Noble onto it with a sloppy joe. We all hand-fed him from the platter of sandwiches and potatoes cooked just for him and offered him the dog cookies Kim had baked. He slowly chewed through labored breaths as we petted him. 

On our first anniversary, my husband and I adopted Noble from a local shelter. His previous family bought him as a puppy and surrendered him after seven years because, as they told the shelter, “they were starting a family.” He cried in his kennel every day, one hundred forty pounds balled up in the rear corner. We knew we had to bring him home, and we had to be patient with him. The day after we brought Noble home from the shelter, he ate a sloppy joe right off my plate as my husband and I were enjoying lunch. We laughed, “That’s what you get with a big dog.” We walked our big boy through the wooded trials of our local park daily and bought him an oversized dog bed for our room. But he managed his way onto our queen sized bed. When we moved across the country to be closer to family, we ditched the queen and ordered a king sized bed so we could all fit better. Occasionally my husband would sneak him French fries as they drove to the park in the morning or as they rushed off to purchase my late-night pregnancy cravings. Noble would get so excited when the doorbell welcomed our extended family that his velvet ears would perk up. He would pant, drool, and wiggle his large frame as they scratched his soft, brown fur. Noble eventually ditched our bed to sleep at the foot of a bassinet, then a crib, then a toddler bed, then a bassinet again. He loved to kiss his human babies as they snuggled into his large frame. 

Once Noble was unable to manage another bite of his feast, my little girl plucked her flannel Christmas blanket from her bedroom upstairs, ran down, and gently draped it over him. My husband and I looked at each other, then we told Maggie it was time. She pulled the IV from her medical bag and explained what would happen next: she would place the IV into his leg and he would drift off in a few minutes to rest in peace. I held his paw in my hand as each of my kids pet him and someone in the room sobbed. I kissed his nose, then my husband leaned down and kissed his forehead. 

The room fell silent as he slipped away. Maggie checked with her stethoscope and motioned to my husband with a sullen nod. 

Maggie placed Noble’s limp paw onto a mold to create a keepsake. My brother and nephew removed the remains of Noble’s final meal. My husband kissed our kids and wiped the tears from my daughter’s eyes with the cuff of his sleeve. I stood, leaned all my weight into my dad, and wept loudly for a few moments before composing myself. Then I joined my husband and kids in the dining room. 

Ryan and my husband followed Maggie outside, gently moving Noble, wrapped up in blankets, to the vet van so he could be transported for cremation. We planned to spread his ashes around the lake at his favorite park where my husband walked him each morning.

The kids and company ate the fried chicken, but I couldn’t eat. I didn’t know how I’d manage without a big, fuzzy face staring at my plate.

The next day, my husband woke early, kissing me on the forehead. I still had no appetite at breakfast. It was foreign not to hear giant paws thundering through the hallway or gentle “uff” barks as the mailman arrived. 

I kissed my kids as they slipped out the door with their grandpa to enjoy the playground. I turned to my husband who stretched his arms out to me, and I fell into his embrace. “You know,” he whispered in my ear, “Noble’s trip over the rainbow bridge was incredible. Every dog deserves to die with that kind of dignity. Just know he’s in a better place with no pain and no cancer. From the perfect final meal, to the visiting friends, to the at-home euthanasia, we made the right choice. In time, there will be another frightened dog ditched in a shelter waiting for us, and Noble will want us to rescue him.”