Tuesday 2 June 2008
Things I don’t like: Having to Do the Right Thing
It’s exam time; things have been pretty busy and I haven’t had much time to update. Don’t hate me, Diary. Anyway, this one is important so I’m writing it. Tough, too – I might actually cry a bit while I write this, and I’ve not cried in ages before last week.
So I was home alone grafting last week Thursday, hitting the maths pretty hard, and texting the guys from class as an avoidance mechanism when there was a knock at the door. It was Ben. I invited him in, glad for the distraction, and we went to my room. I made coffee and we had some small talk. He wasn’t quite there, though, if you follow me, seemed a little agitated and not quite right. He’s also writing exams, and I know he’s bombed at least one and taking some strain, and that’s what I thought it was.
So we carry on, but I’m talking and he’s kinda half-heartedly there and I’ll admit I was getting a little irritated that he’s come over and distracting me and not really giving it stick, just sitting there fidgeting and pointless. Suddenly he looks me in the eye. Not to claim any level of mysticism or psychic ability, but I went cold and the hair on the back of my neck stood up. He tells me Mr Pancakes is sick.
Mr Pancakes is the old family dog, a quirky Corgi who has been there a while, maybe 7 years. He followed on from Mr Hamilton, the family hamster who was unfortunately disposed of by Mr Magic, the erstwhile family cat. There was a Mr Cokey as well, who was also a cat which disappeared somewhere along the way. I’m not sure why everyone gets a Mr name, but they all do. Three days after The Tragedy of Mr Hamilton, they were heading down the highway when Ben’s mom spots a puppy running into the bushes. No idea whose or how he got there, they rescued him and voila – Mr Pancakes. He’s been Ben’s ever since; the family mutt, sure, but pretty much he’s been Ben’s child and friend.
I express my concern about Mr Pancakes and ask what is wrong. Ben is a little vague, won’t look me in the eye, and rattles off a few things. He’s not eating and he’s in some pain. From what little I know, it doesn’t sound good, but then again I’m not a vet. I ask what’s going to happen.
For a while he’s quiet, looking at his fingers. He looks at me again, then away. “We have to put him to sleep,” he says, and then the poor guy just dissolves. He’s trying to keep a brave face, I can tell, but he catches my eye again and it’s tickets. He just crumples and starts crying, hard. I don’t mean a few tears and an emotional catch in the throat, I mean bawling for every incidence of injustice for every little kid in the world. The guy is completely inconsolable and I’m completely fucking helpless. He’s not the emotional sort, so this is weird. I am a soft touch for tears, though, and his distress set me off and I started crying too. So there we are, 18 and 19 and crying like we’re six again for a long, long time.
It wasn’t even cathartic – we just cried, all secure in the knowledge that it isn’t going to change anything and Mr Pancakes is still going to die. I’ve known Ben since I was five and suddenly fear grabs hold of my intestines because I know why he’s here.
“When do you have to take him to the vet?” I can guess the answer. He went to the vet yesterday and they got the news; the vet said to take him home for one last night so they could say goodbye. It’s today, and Ben needs to be convinced that now is the time and that Mr Pancakes deserves to go quickly and without distress, that waiting any longer would be cruel. Ben knows all this, but Ben has never been the leader and sometimes needs a firm hand to force him to make the decision, and from now on, for a while, I’ll be the guy who killed his dog. But it needs to be done. I’m pretty sure his family have said their goodbyes and Ben has said he’d do the deed and I’m the one who gets to be moral support. No time like the present.
“I’ll come with you. You just say when and we’ll go.” He cries more; lots more. I leave to get him some tissues and a shot of Dad’s good whiskey while I compose myself for what comes next. This will not be a quick process, I know that. I know that we’ll get to his house and he’ll have every reason in the world why we should wait a bit and I’m going to have to be a bastard and force his hand or it’ll never get done. For the first time, I understand why politicians are resistant to euthanasia, and I realise that this is growing up and it’s pretty shit.
He downs the whiskey in one gulp – we’ve all done some growing up this year – and we go. At the house, he surprises me by getting straight to it. I get to drive his mom’s car and he’s going to carry Mr Pancakes for the last time. I can see the dog isn’t well, he seems almost grateful to be going. I get a lick on my hand and a few wags of his tail while he whimpers, clearly in some distress, but this isn’t about me. I’m getting ready to play the bad guy, do my best impression of tough love and insist we get going, but Ben surprises me by gently picking the pup up and heading straight to the car, leaving me to lock up.
All the way there, just three minutes’ drive, he’s talking quietly to Mr Pancakes, straight into his ear, chucking him under the chin and stroking him all the while. I don’t want to use a term like sweet nothings, but that’s exactly what they were and it struck me, admittedly inappropriately, that Ben is going to make an amazing lover one day and an even more incredible dad.
I pull up outside the surgery and there’s an open bay right in front of the place. It’s across from the big Dutch Reformed church; there’s a crèche on the opposite corner. The streets are quiet since it’s a work and school day for everyone except us. I wonder what will happen next, whether Ben is going to be okay, and whether now the part I dread will happen, but he passes me the dog and makes to go inside.
“He doesn’t like it in there, the smell, so I want to make sure they can take him right now. That okay?” He goes inside, and I’m gently cradling the dog and trying to be brave and ensure I don’t hurt him. I get a lick on my ear for my trouble. Ben comes back out; with a curt nod, it’s time. He opens my door and I pass Mr Pancakes over, and in they go with little ceremony while I lock up the car. I manage to get into the surgery to see Ben heading into a consultation room and I follow him in. The vet is young; mid 20s, I’d guess, strong-featured and pretty. On another day we’d be perving over her, but nobody’s heart is in it. She has a sad smile on her face and I get the feeling that this sort of thing still stays with her and, although sensible and humane, is not something she’s comfortable doing, not yet. For no logical reason, I’m grateful for that.
“Can you give us a minute?” Ben asks, and she nods and withdraws out the back door into the bowels of the practice. I’m not sure he wants me to stay, so I give the dog a pat, then a big kiss on his head, and tell Ben I’ll be outside and go out to the reception.
We’re the only people there, me and the receptionist, an elderly lady who just screams loving grandmother and who tells me that Mr Pancakes has been coming there forever, and she remembers him as a pup coming for shots and to get neutered a little later. I suspect she probably does and she’s not just looking at the file and making it up.
Time passes; I spend it looking mostly out the window at nothing. The weather is kinda bleak, typical for June, and following the script for a day like today. After about twenty minutes, Ben comes out and without meeting anyone’s eye walks to the car. His body language, the dejection and sadness evident in the slump of his shoulders, hits me hard. I follow him out, unsure of how to proceed and wondering if I should say something which may be welcomed or may just be viewed as a cliché. He’s waiting at the driver’s door – guess my work driving his mom’s lush new Megane is over – and I give him the keys.
“Are you okay, Ben?”
He’s quiet for a long time, then he nods. “I’m going to take you home, then I’m going to drive to Sunset and watch the sea for a bit. Can you call my mom and tell her everything? I’m just… I don’t want to talk to the folks just yet. Please ask her to give me a couple of hours before phoning.” He looks at me. “Yes, I’m fine to drive.” And that’s that.
At home, I don’t want to leave him like that but he’s adamant and although not strong he’s known to be stubborn; I will lose this battle. He manages a quiet “thanks,” and my choked out “I’m so sorry, Ben” brings a fresh wetness to his eyes as he drives off.
He texted me later, thanking me again for everything, and we grabbed a cup of coffee at The Chameleon Café on Sunday. I think he’ll be okay. I hated it, though, having to be there. He didn’t need me much in the end, and damn am I glad I didn’t need to force him along, but the complete helplessness of it all hit me pretty hard and I don’t like seeing my loved ones in distress, mostly because I don’t know how to handle it. Does it make me a terrible person? I think it does. He’s not the most hardcore of us, Ben, but it will bug him to have lost it in front of me, or anyone. Al, for all his machismo, is the one with his heart on his sleeve; I think he’d be better about it all. Still, Ben’s got some healing to do.
G’bye, Mr Pancakes.
-C
