In Memory of Gracie
It was the hottest summer in years. In the nineties every day and brutal. I was having an argument with my ex-wife on the phone, when there was a pounding at the door, much earlier than I expected. There was a forced hush, and I stared at the door for several seconds. "I have to go, your father's here." "You're nuts to let him stay with you!" she shouted. "How inappropriate!" I hung up the phone and opened the door for Donald, who was tightly clutching a reddish-brown Pomeranian in one arm and dangling a tote bag from the other. He began explaining about suitcases in the car, and I was glad to escape from the house for the moment. I dragged his bags from the back seat.
Even though my wife had left me for a wealthy man, I couldn't blame her father for that. He was a decent man, I thought, and I pitied him for all of his problems with his 3rd wife. Much worse than Amy. Frances would drink herself into an enraged frenzy, and the verbal abuse poured out like bottles of wine, and the fights lasted for days and days.
"Come in," I said. "I hope you don't mind that I brought Gracie," he began hurriedly. "Frances made me take her. She said, 'She's your dog, not mine, and I want her out of here!' She thrust her into my arms, so what could I do?' "It's okay," I said. "Susie probably won't mind."
Susie and Gracie were sniffing each other excitedly, and the two seemed to be getting along well. I went into the kitchen and prepared a separate bowl of water and dog food for Gracie. She seemed pleased to receive the water, and lapped up quite a bit, while Susie watched patiently. Susie then went to her dish to drink her own water.
"She has a bit of a cough," Donald went on. "The heat is too much for her. In the car, I had the air conditioning on, too bad you don't have any here. The vet told me that Pomeranians are bred 'special as pets, they're oversized, their windpipes are too small." "Oh, is that what it is?" I said, looking at Gracie. The dog gasped. "She'll be okay," I said, mopping the sweat from my face and neck with an old dishtowel.
The first night went by smoothly. Donald sat in a chair, quietly reading the newspaper all evening. I watched the usual TV; no one bothered me. The ex-wife had no further complaints. As I lay awake at night, thinking about how Amy left me for a herd of cows, I heard Gracie coughing and choking in the next bedroom. "It sure is hot," I thought over and over, while I turned restlessly in bed. The air was thick and heavy, which made it difficult to breathe, let alone sleep. The fan rattled away noisily, providing reassurance, but little relief.
The next day, Susie and Gracie were not so friendly towards each other. Susie had probably expected Gracie to leave her home and began getting jealous and intolerant. She blocked Gracie's way to the dog food, and the two fought over both bowls of water. Susie began snarling and showing her front teeth. Gracie remained amiable, even though her cough had gotten worse, and she was making high-pitched gasping sounds most of the time. I held Gracie on my lap and she licked my face. She was a good girl, I liked her.
Donald said, "One time we had to take Gracie to the vet, when her choking got very bad. The vet hooked her up to something and got her breathing again. Cost a fortune," he added. He began leafing through his wallet several times nervously. "I'm afraid that Frances is going to get everything," he said. "My pension, social security, all of my savings…"
"Let's not think about that," I said.
"She gave me no choice but to leave her," Donald continued. "This is the worst she's ever been. I couldn't take it anymore. I was under siege when I left. She was literally throwing things at me, I had to get my shit together and get the hell out of there!" "I think it's a good thing, all you did was fight all the time," I said. I never liked Frances. She appeared very condescending in person, and Donald has told me how she criticized people behind their backs. She was an insecure person, but also an extremely mean person, I thought.
Gracie's breathing began to get worse.
"Can't you take her to the vet?" I asked.
"I can't afford it right now," Donald said. "I've explained all of that to you about my finances, I just can't afford it!"
"Well, if it gets any worse, I think you're going to have to call the vet," I said.
Donald was silent and began twitching nervously.
The noise coming from Gracie became more and more intolerable - that high-pitched gasping and choking - and Susan's constant animosity towards her.
"No! No!" Donald would yell at the dogs, although this had no effect whatsoever. I felt sorry for Gracie and held her in my arms. She licked my face and wagged her tail in spite of her discomfort.
The next couple days, when I came in from work, Gracie greeted me as if I was her best friend. Susie had gotten more adversarial, and it became difficult to give Gracie the food and water she needed. Her poor breathing made it difficult for her to consume anything, and Susie lingered near, baring her teeth, and challenging Gracie to approach the water dish. The heat was intense, and the sound of the Pomeranian's continuous distress was intolerable. "No! No! No!" Donald shouted at the two dogs, who completely ignored him.
"Can you call the vet?" I appealed to Donald again. "It's probably not that expensive, you can put it on your credit card." "I just don't have the money right now!" he said angrily. Then he began giving a lengthy description of his life with Frances. When he paused for a moment, I took the opportunity to leave the room.
I returned to try to feed Gracie again. Susie made it impossible.
"You know, if you have any tranquilizers, why don't you give Gracie one?" Donald said. "The vet's given them to her before, to calm her, and help with her breathing."
"Are you sure?" I asked.
"Absolutely," Donald insisted. "Their windpipes are too thin, but the tranquilizers will help her relax."
I was skeptical but wanted badly to help Gracie. Her choking had become louder, and I couldn't bear it anymore. She was a good dog and I didn't want her to suffer.
I broke off a tiny piece of the pill and put it in Gracie's mouth. She swallowed it. Just then the phone rang and I answered it upstairs. It was another argument with Amy about "why she ruined a perfectly good marriage for life on the farm." I knew that it was the lure of the cows, and I blamed them more than anyone else. I refused to believe that the rich guy meant anything. As always, she slammed the phone down, and I left the house to walk to the store. I thought I'd buy some beer and a few lottery tickets. On the way out, Donald said, "This damn heat. I'm going to take a cool bath and put Gracie in the tub with me."
Twenty minutes later, I walked back in the door. The little Pomeranian wasn't there to greet me. Donald came quietly down the stairs, and said, "I think Gracie is dead." I was shocked by the suddenness of the remark and looked quickly at Donald. He had a strange expression on his face, almost one of triumph, as though he’d accomplished something. I forced myself to look down at the dog.
The poor thing was motionless; no sounds of life or breathing, a hunk of lifeless fur. "Get her to the vet!" I yelled frantically.
"This is like a mark on my conscience," Donald said. "You can't tell her head from her tail."
I dialed the phone, and panicked, "I have a dog here who seems very sick. I'm afraid she might die…" Donald sat on the couch with the dog, making jerking motions with his hands and arms.
"Bring her in right now," they reassured me. I had a terrible feeling that the vet wasn't going to be able to help.
I gave Donald directions. I didn't want to go.
"Why don't you come with me? Why can't you come to the vet with me?" he demanded. “Thanks for nothing!”
"I told you to take her a long time ago," I said. "I can't deal with it anymore."
"Thanks! Thanks a lot!" Donald shouted angrily.
I shrugged my shoulders and ran to the car, not wanting to waste precious moments. Donald followed, Pomeranian in arm.
The vet put the stethoscope on various places on Gracie's body, then shook her head. "Oh no, then it's what I feared," Donald cried. The look on his face was strange to me, he almost appeared to be smiling. But I knew that couldn't be.
"I'll leave you alone for a little while," the vet said.
A few moments later, the assistant came in and asked Donald how he wanted Gracie to be buried. "A group burial. Whatever's cheapest, I guess." He shifted nervously.
I was enraged. I never wanted to see Donald or his daughter again.
Donald left the next day and returned to Frances. I knew I'd never get the image of Gracie out of my mind. She was a scar on my brain. Perhaps her death was what he wanted, a "mark on his conscience," self-punishment and sympathy. But Gracie and I were innocent bystanders, discarded rubble that was violently swept away by the turbulence of other people's lives.
