The vet’s footsteps reverberated on the porch stairs through the stone silence inside our house. I squeezed the hand of one son and glanced over at my other. I turned my gaze back toward Jessie. She lay on a green quilt by the front window as the sun set in the winter sky.
My husband and I were out of town for an extended time when the vet suggested X-rays were in order. Our sons took Jessie and were the first to learn there was no hope. They took charge: administering pain killers; gingerly carrying her down the porch steps to a path they cleared on the icy lawn so she could pee; making her a pile of blankets to sleep on the floor. They took turns crying, knowing they needed to be strong for the other.
The vet administered the second injection. This one to stop Jessie’s heart. A few minutes later, she leaned over and placed her stethoscope on Jessie’s chest. She looked up, her eyes meeting mine. “She’s gone,” she said. The weight of saying goodbye was too great for my husband and sons’ broken hearts to bear, so I helped carry Jessie out of our home. “You’ll never forget her,” the vet said after we placed Jessie in her trunk. She closed the hatch and drove away.
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