OPENING THE DOOR

My parents both grew up on farms in the countryside of Northern Ireland. There were cows, sheep, chickens, dogs, cats... and they were all outside. Animals were not an indoor occurrence then, and animals were not an indoor occurrence in my childhood either. We had cats mostly -- no dogs until we had a bigger yard. Granted, our yard at the time my father made that promise was much bigger than most apartments currently housing retrievers, shepherds and Great Danes... but when you grew up on a farm in the countryside of Northern Ireland, I'm sure a moderate suburban backyard seemed like a speck of dust. At any rate, the second we lay eyes on our new yard the first words out of my brother's mouth... "Now can we get a dog?"

We did get a dog. Two in fact, about a year apart. And they were mutts, and they were sweet and they were... outdoor dogs. They ate whatever kibble was on sale and anything from our kitchen table not laced with chicken bones... and they ate it all outside. They did not snuggle on the couch with us... well, except in some terrible thunder storms. They did not go on road trips with the family or appear in any family portraits. They did not get bathed in the bath in the house, but rather in the sand-free, turtle-shaped sandbox -- though my brother and I, upon deciding they didn't like cold water, proceeded to carry buckets of warm water from the bathroom to the turtle while our parents looked on in dismay and maybe even a little bit of disgust at our slant towards pampering. Bossy and Boots were happy, well-cared for and well-fed dogs, small to medium mixed breeds... Cocker Spaniel and Pekingese we figured... female and male... who lived outside.

At about 12 or 13 years of age, a series of trips to the vet revealed Boots not only needed to have several teeth pulled… but he had developed tumors and probable kidney failure. I was 19 at the time, my sister 13. I took responsibility for the vet visits, the every-other-day subcutaneous fluids, the feeding, the medications. I remember one day, massaging the saline filled lump on Boots' back, thinking "this is causing him more pain than it's worth" and deciding to stop the fluids, I shortly thereafter voiced my opinion to my parents. Even at a responsible 19, I don't think I realized what my decision actually meant.

At a family dinner the following weekend discussions were had, promises made, understanding glances were passed, volunteers stepped up to the plate. Shortly thereafter they shared their decision with me. And while I agreed, I still didn't really know what it meant except that that day, I knew I needed to come home after my early morning shift at the coffee shop. I knew I needed to spend time with Boots and Bossy. I knew I needed to take Meghan away before Pic came to take Boots away.

Pic said he would do it. He understood how hard all of this was and the man that he is, he stepped up. But so did my father. The man who believed animals lived outside. The man who wanted us to believe Boots was our dog, not his... stepped up. Meghan and I went away that day... somewhere... I can't remember where. All I remember was thinking all morning... I have to get home, I have to take her away. Now I wonder if what I really needed was to take myself away. Then and now, I know that though our grief was strong, our day was easy, because on that hot summer day, Boots looking sweet and compassionate as ever but thin and dull as never before, my father faced the hardest task I can imagine... even if animals were supposed to live outside.