This evening blesses me with an abundance of pleasures: a chill wind that brought back welcome winter weather after too many warm days; a fine Islay Scotch in hand; a productive week brought to a close; an abundance of cats lounging around me; a good book and a call from an old friend; white pelicans bobbing on a white-capped bay; Corelli cantatas on the stereo.

I should be speechless with joy.  Instead, I am sad to my bones.  Over a nameless puppy I knew for no more than ten minutes.

This afternoon I took Gummy to the vet for the sedation and cleansing (euphemism for enema) her own afflictions occasionally require.  I sit with her while she comes to, to calm the confusion and fear that come from waking groggily in a strange, antiseptic place.  In the room with us was a small black Labrador puppy enclosed in a glass box to which an oxygen bottle and tube were attached.  Alone and caged, she gasped for air with rapid breaths.

Pneumonia, my vet told me.  Probably a complication from “kennel cough” contracted while she was held in a local shelter.  He opened the box and let me hold and pet her for a few minutes.  For that brief time, the little girl was ecstatic with joy and relief.  But she couldn’t stay out for long.

My vet is gifted and dedicated to his calling.  He has done and will do all that can be done for the puppy.  When I asked him what chances he gave for the dog to live, he paused and said…maybe 20%.  I was shocked.  To live or to die, I asked, thinking I’d misunderstood.  To live, he answered.

She has not left my thoughts since.  She has colored my whole evening with an uncharacteristic blue swath.  I am puzzled at myself.  She is just another dog, one of countless millions who are and have been born, to live happily or in misery, are loved or live a loveless life, who will die and be remembered or will pass without notice.  Isn’t she just another creature, another biomass destined for the same end we are all bound for?  She may be dead now, for all I know, or perhaps will be by morning.

What does she matter to me?  I am a rancher’s kid; I can’t begin to count the animals I’ve known which have died.  Just this past Christmas morning my stepfather and I had to euthanize a sick 8-day-old calf – on Christmas morning, for God’s sake!

As I grow older myself, life in all its shapes and forms seems more precious and valuable.  Now 62, I know my own death draws closer with each day.  It is real to me now as it never was when I was a young man.  Though I have worked through days and years that were less than happy or secure, I would not wish away a single one of them.  And I would not wish for any living creature to have less.

Certainly not a puppy who has known only a few months of love and kindness – of life! – when it should have years.

I don’t know what else to say about that.  There is little chance of a happy ending, and no platitude can assuage or brighten that fact.  There is no saccharine “rainbow bridge” for this little girl.

Goodbye, my sweet passing little friend.  It makes no difference at all to you, but you will not be forgotten soon.  I’m grieving for you even now, on an otherwise magical night.  That’s no consolation for any goddamn thing at all, but helpless and foolish as I am, it’s all I have.