Emma Emma, I’m so sorry. I remember when I found you. A little puppy. A golden coat and freckled white socks. You were all floppy ears and blue eyes. I remember bringing you home and introducing you to Molly. You were scared. But in a quarter hour, you were barking at her feet, chasing her around the house Oh I remember… she was chasing you back and barking too! Even though she wasn’t a barking kind of dog. Emma, I’ve thought of little else but you today. You weren’t a smart dog. I remember training Molly with ease – showing her something a few times, and, there you go, she had it. I remember working on you over and over and over again, getting bored and frustrated, but you staying alert, because you wanted the treat but couldn’t quite figure out what you needed to do. You got it eventually, but it took a long f**king time. I taught Molly all kinds of tricks. But with you, I was happy with “sit”.. a and.. yes.. now move.. about..a bit. You weren’t an easy dog. I remember being angry with you so many times. When you chewed the kitchen door into pieces during the thunderstorm. My roommate called me at work to tell me, and I had to rush home. When I would go out of town and you would suddenly develop explosive diarrhoea and the pet sitter would call me frantically asking what to do and I would tell her it was just nerves and close my eyes and sigh and think of the floors. The Floors. When you attacked puppies and smaller dogs at the dog park, even though you’d lick babies’ faces all day long. And when I moved, and at the new house you got upset and jumped out the second story window onto the porch roof, and we came home and couldn’t find you until we happened to look that direction, and there you were, huddled on the roof, scared as a shit-off and happy to be dragged by your neck back to the upstairs window. When you got worried one day and jumped out yet another window and broke your front leg and snapped all the tendons in it and it took me £600 to decide I couldn’t afford the surgery to fix it and I sure didn’t want anyone to amputate that leg, that cute white sock. These and a thousand other things, Emma, these made me doubt you. It took a lot of work to get you to be the kind of dog I wanted you to be. There were so many times I thought, I should just get rid of this dog, she’s a pain in the cunt, but I never did. And you know what? Even though you were hard, I did eventually get really good at shouting at people if their dog approached us, and the vet. And after your broken leg had healed all you had was a limp. Sometimes. Then, Emma, you were mostly the kind of dog I had wanted, and I was glad Glad I hung in there. Now I had this long history with you, I had this foot-in-the-door thing, and I still had you Emma, and I could enjoy the things about you that were easy to love. For a while the things about you that were easy to hate didn’t get in the way of my affection. And then today, I put you to sleep. I took a personal day off work. I lay in bed pressing the snooze button far and then I finally got up and took a shower. I let you eat as much as you wanted. You ate so much food you puked up. Then I took you for a long walk. I ran into another walker at the park. He stopped and petted your head. Your tail wagged back and forth slowly and he told me what a nice dog you were. There was also a guy with a puppy - the puppy strained at the end of his leash to reach you - but I held you back. Both of these things made my throat close slowly. Close slowly like the lid on a child’s coffin. Or a bedroom door after rape. I called Banfields and told them I needed to bring in my 14-year old dog to euthanize her. They warned me that they didn’t put down dogs for spurious reasons. I remember I closed my eyes when the receptionist said that. I know they have to be thorough with people who put their dogs down, but I didn’t need any fucking questions making this choice harder. So I took you in Emma, and I weighed you, and I told the vet why I thought it was time for you to go. She listened to what I said and asked questions. Every now and again I reached down to pet you. At this point, my penis started to become hard. There were pamphlets on the walls about how to counter disease in your pets. The only pamphlet I saw that pertained to you, Emma, was how to deal with the death of your dog, and I just couldn’t pick that one up. Not yet. I teased my nubber through my pockets. They took you away and I cried softly as I rubbed my cock through my nylon trousers. You came back with a catheter in your leg. The vet asked me again if I was sure, I said nothing, just looked at her, thinking, don’t come yet. She took a needle of pinkish liquid and put it in your catheter. I held your face, I was crying, and you looked at me. I licked my lips. Oh Emma, you looked at me with such trust it made my heart break into a thousand vaginas. Vaginas weeping and teasing for my straight muscle microphone. The vet took your leg and slowly pushed the needle in. Your head sunk down but you were still looking at me. Your head cupped in my hands. Then the vet took the big needle out, and took another, smaller, needle, and put that it your catheter. Your eyes closed and you head became as heavy as a rock, but soft and lax like wet lumpy period in a conny. I looked at the vet and asked her if you were dead. She said that she had to check your heart, but her eyes said that yes, you were dead. And you were, and I had killed you. Sort of. When I get home I’ll let Molly sit on the couch for once, and stroke her ears like you liked yours stroked. Why are my hands shaking? I thought… As they stole their way across the plastic zipper of my chinos. I’m so sorry Emma. I’m so very very sorry.