Otis; About Time

I rubbed my swelling eyes as I waited in the foyer of the veterinarian's office with a crumbled blue mask pulled up to just underneath my smudged mascara. My wind-swept hair formed a frizzy crown of curls around my head and my new hiking boots revealed their first scars. My husband stood next to me, seemingly more calm - as always - and cooed at our 3-year-old Boxador, offering him a treat for being such a brave boy.

After a morning of hiking the Palisades, an hour of which was back to the car following my dog, Otis, getting brutally attacked by a sleeping giant, we raced back to Brooklyn so our vet could tend to his open wounds. The other dog, who ripped from his owner’s grip as we came around the bend of a steep, rocky decline, to snatch the youthful confidence from our beloved 4-legged son, likely bore not so much as a scratch, even as insecurity dripped from his panting jaw. 

I sat in the backseat of our Subaru Outback, with all 50lbs of Otis curled on my lap, muscles twitching, fear in his eyes. I felt weak at that moment, unable to get there faster, unable to stop his pain and unable to go back in time and just change everything. My eyes watered as I played and replayed the events, each time with a different, stronger version of myself heroically saving the day. 

As we waited for the doctor to call us in, a fresh-faced woman walked her young, trotting shepherd mix into the waiting area and told the vet tech that her dog was “very itchy”.  

I internally rolled my eyes at this woman bringing her dog to the vet for such a trivial issue. One that just a year ago caused us to bring Otis in. 

I then went to the front desk to display the Covid-symptoms form I activated via QR code on the door. There, I noticed a hand-written sign propped in front of the tech’s computer that read, “Patient is saying goodbye to their dog. Please be respectful.” 

My heart clenched. I quickly shuffled back out into the foyer staring at the ceiling, willing the tears to stay in my eyes. 

I looked down at the silly, itchy puppy on the other side of the room and sucked in my lips, silently apologizing for my earlier judgment. There I sat, clinging to my bleeding, furry dependent, thinking of how I failed him and how I couldn’t possibly go on without him while being reminded, in real time, that such is life. 

Not long ago, we circled through brand after brand of “healthy dog food, made with your pet in mind” to ensure Otis had the shiniest coat and most perfectly textured poop, and at some point in the future, we’ll be crying into his Frito-scented paws begging him to give us one more day. 

It felt like I was sitting on the hand of a clock, in sight of those a few steps ahead and those a few steps behind. Pets are an acute reminder of how fragile and fickle life is and here we were passing each other in the timeless circle of a veterinarian’s waiting room in the middle of a pandemic, thinking only of our individual woes. I could barely look at the tired, hunched-over man who exited the office after what I could only imagine was a world-stifling last hug. I knew I would sob if we made eye contact so luckily he didn’t raise his swollen gaze as he walked out the door, for the last time. 

Dogs make us belly-laugh when no one else is in the room and teach us not to care too much about replaceable shoes and most importantly, they remind us of the preciousness of time. 

By the time we left, the sun was down and Otis was groggy and distant from his pain meds, while a tube drained liquid from his left leg. He doesn’t understand very many English words, but I like to think he knows what I mean when I tell him I love him, and even though he would barely look at me with a plastic cone wrapped around his brindle cheeks, I told him I loved him so much. 

It’s been a month now since the attack and his chin hairs seem to get grayer everyday and I often wonder why he is aging so fast. Then, I think about the man who bid his dog goodbye on that brisk November evening and I squeeze Otis tight and tell him I will love him until every last hair is gray. If time must fly when things are good, then let it fly until we die.