Waiting for Johnny

Could the pain be any greater if the one hurting were human and not our dog?
The guilt I feel when he is asleep, in between seconds of painful motion
or hideous wavering, when he's too stoned from the drugs to even move-that guilt is all my own…Endlessly questioning whether there is anything more I could do for him. I do not deserve this easy rest while he has simply dropped into an exhaustion from his efforts to control his pain.
And the questions about my intent-are the drugs to keep him placid and numb or for me to feel as if I'm really doing something for him?
I remember sitting next to my father as he finally stopped breathing-that seemed so quick, so easy (the nursing home was quick after that last breath). Laura and I take turns sitting as Johnny ekes out yet one more breath, hoping against hope that there may be a way to save him, that we will not have to say goodbye.
The tears come easily at first, but gradually, after you feel like you've scraped your guts to relieve the pain and held your breath and whimpered your loudest until no sound or helping person comes-then, comes the dryness. Empty. The mourning is played out in sobs more concept than real.

Nan comes with her needles and stretcher. I'm too goddamn old to dig him a good grave. Johnny is whisked away-no, only his body is taken. He still fills this house. He stands outside the glass door-somehow, Johnny is once more a bouncing puppy, eager to be in our arms again.

And today there is snow, which he loved to roll around in upside down in order to grab bites of the stuff.