Shadow Dog Press

He died.

Something I fed him ruptured his gut, and that’s all I’m going to say about that.

I took him to the emergency vet because his stomach was distended, and he was breathing heavily, which meant he was in pain. Due to the x-rays, the vet wanted to keep him overnight. I agreed, believing I would pick him up the next morning and he would be cured.

But no.

I got a call from the vet stating that he had “gone downhill overnight,” and the technicians were doing CPR on him as I was talking to the vet on the phone. The vet wanted to put him down, and I told him, “You do all you can to keep him alive!”

“Looks like he’s trying to go on his own anyway.”

After that devastating call, I got dressed to go to the vet, and I phoned my friend, Terry, screaming, “he’s dying.”

After a 52-minute drive to the vet, I was taken into a room and graciously told that Groot did not make it. The pain in my chest had me kicking the nearest table and spewing a slew of curses. The room blurred through my tears.

The vet came in and said words, but I couldn’t comprehend the sounds emanating from his mouth. My dog was dead.

MY DOG WAS DEAD!

They gave me his body in a nice canvas bag, which I placed on the passenger seat of my car.

I was so hysterical that I barely remembered the 52-minute drive home—except when I was pulled over for passing vehicles over the double yellow line.

Really?

The officer saw how upset I was and noticed my dog’s body on the passenger seat; he gave me a warning instead of a ticket and said some words like that vet had, which I don’t remember either.

I also don’t remember driving the rest of the way home.

I left his body in the car until my husband came home.

I watched him dig the hole in the yard while I held Groot in my arms. Then, I gingerly placed him in the hole.

My husband made me place a shovel of soil on top of him.

And I lost it.

I wailed and screamed and wailed again. I couldn’t see anything through my tears. My knees buckled, and I fell to the ground. My husband (who never cries) had to pick me up. My feet dragged along the earth as we headed toward the patio. He placed me in a chair.

I wondered if he could smell the booze on my breath.

Yes, I had broken five years of sobriety and had four shots of bourbon before he got home.

But I felt justified in doing so.

Once I calmed down a little, I looked at my husband straight in the eyes, although my view was askew from the alcohol and tears, and said, “We have to get another dog.”

It was the only thing I knew of that would take the edge off, hinder, or flat-out get rid of the unholy pain of losing a pet.

I was right.

Ten days later, we got a female dog named Grits.

Sure, the primary purpose of getting her was to lessen the pain of losing Groot. But she’s her own little entity—an angel and a devil. She loves to give kisses and shit on the floor.

Everything is a toy to her, not just her dog toys, but shoes and toilet paper.

So, giving our attention to this six-pound animal has left little room for anything else, which includes mourning Groot.

I was right.