1. Remember that it’s January, so lotion your dry, ashy knuckles before you leave the house. Protect them against winter’s bitter teeth.
  2. Drive five under, the entire way, so you’re just late enough to the vet appointment that they don’t reschedule you. Convince yourself that, out of all moments to be late for something, this would be the one. Feel the irresponsible sting anyways.
  3. Make sure that your wife isn’t holding the dog too tightly in the passenger seat. You know that she couldn’t handle any blood on her hands. Anything other than old age, anything preventable, it would have been too much. Think about all of the narrowly-avoided tragedies: the missing posters, the coyotes, how the word splatter makes you feel. Play them out in your head. Remember that what you’re doing is the best-case scenario, somehow.
  4. Go by one of those coffee shops that gives your dog a dollop of whipped cream in a cup. Order two—one for right now and one to make up for all of the times that you could have done this but chose not to. Remember, if you can, to one day change.
  5. Apologize when you arrive, gently. The staff will be more than understanding; this sorry is, instead, for you.
  6. Watch as the vet misses the first vein, pulls out the needle like a thistle’s stem, then eyes you directly, making sure that this is still something you want to do. Here is where you nod, after a few seconds of distraction from the vibrant, red blood against white fur. You remember all the movies you’ve seen where the camera emphasizes that same splatter of vermillion against a sheet of brilliant, milky snow, now understanding its cinematic power.
  7. The vet will mention the word “heaven” and your teeth will naturally grit. The word will make you uncomfortable, the earning of it. The idea of reincarnation always sat better when it graced your tongue. Though, you’ll sincerely hope this dog made it there, half for your wife’s solace and half because this is the most bitter, spiteful, stubborn thing you’ve ever met, and if this dog can make it to heaven, then maybe you have a chance too.
  8. Make sure the vet has your phone number correct, and emphasize that he must call as soon as the remains come in. Think about the process of cremation and how little you really know about it. Drive five under, the entire way back, for no other reason than consistency. You and your wife, you both need something that you can control—something grounding, cyclic.
  9. Remember your dog as a campfire—its flame, crunch, soot smearing on corduroy. A drawl of communion. A brief, deep breath, away from the swallow and spit of the world. Remember that even the densest, tightest rings of oak and cedar will always dilute to ashy past-tenses. The night will one day curl back into itself, and, in your mouth, salt will gather once again, in its own rebirth.
  10. Research cremation. Drink an iced americano; lie to yourself about truly enjoying it today. Remember that winter is still, somehow, your favorite season: the bare limbs, the gentle accumulation—a loss both necessary and beautiful.
  11. Lotion your knuckles once more. Feel just how little separates bone.

About the Author:

Christian Chase Garner (he/him) is a writer and exceptionally amateur baker from the Arkansas River Valley. His work has appeared in MAYDAY, Cleaver Magazine, 3Elements Review, Blood Tree Literature, Stirring, Book of Matches, Exposition Review, and Sleet Magazine, among others.

*Feature image by Guillaume Bleyer on Unsplash