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I wonder if he knows. As I sit here on the floor next to his fancy dog bed that supports his shaky frame, I wonder if he knows that last night was the last time len would carry him up the stairs to sleep in the bed with us, that this is his last morning ear scratch. I wonder if he knows why Len has making him bacon every morning for the past week. I wonder.
I wonder if he knows that today is the last day.
The vet told me he's in near-constant pain. Irwin can't speak, but I know he's unable to stand by himself or walk to his favorite spot on the lawn without help or large amounts of pain medication. The pills, when I can trick him into swallowing them with food, make him too groggy to play.
He trusts me, I think, to make the right choice for him. For his sake, and not my own. If it were up to me, we would soldier on. Keep trying to find the right cocktail of drugs to dull the ravages of age and kidney failure. Hold on to the bitter end. Fight the inevitable for a few more days, weeks, months even.
But that's not fair, not to him. He's tired.
He's a good boy.
He looked at me yesterday in one of his rare moments of clarity, his eyes almost shiny enough to be those of a puppy, and I knew.
He's ready.
And today, on this last day, we're going to make sure he knows how loved he is. Just because today is the last day, doesn't mean it can't be a good day.
I take him to the groomer's first. She smiles at him when Len carries him over (tail wagging weakly) to the bathing station. The floors are polished and slippery, and Irwin's balance is long gone. We go for coffee while he has his last spa day, and when we return Irwin smells like strawberries and I swear his wide doggy grin has an edge of pride in it as I gush over his new pawprint bandanna. His fur, once mostly black, is grey and gleaming, trimmed and ready for the world to see. He hasn't worn the service vest for three years, not since age caught up to him, and even then he barely wore for years before that, as I had finally regained a sense of safety.
He licks my face, consoling me against the tide of grief that wells up in my chest at the sight of him.
Next, we go to Rogues and head upstairs where Lisa has converted the old apartment to a large office space and break room. Len had moved out years ago, leaving it empty. Mick had briefly lived there, but he had quickly found that he preferred to separate his work from his home life. There, in the apartment where Len had first seen him in action, Irwin feasts on burgers and fries while Mick strokes the fur on his back and remarks that no one had ever appreciated his cooking this much. I watch him eat, and though he doesn't finish either, it's the most I've seen him eat unprompted in over a month. His once strong body is thin and bony, his muscles wasting away.
Lisa is there too, pestering Len to sign off on some things for the restaurant, though I suspect it's to distract him from the tears that threaten to fall from her brother's eyes.
As a group, we take Irwin to the dog park, where Iris and Eddie are waiting with their two border collies. While the dogs play, I let Iris hug me. She squeezes hard, and for a moment it helps me feel as though I'm not on the verge of falling apart. Irwin can't run with his friends, but they both stay with him and bring him toys to squeak together. He looks over at me, and I see the strain of having fun written across his face.
It's time.
The vet is waiting for us when we get there. The office is quiet, and the mood is somber. Len offers to come inside with me, but I need to do this alone. I've relied on Irwin to protect me and care for me for so long. I've counted on him for over ten years.
Irwin is counting on me now.
And now it's time to say good bye.
I wonder if he knows.