Date: Wed, 25 Jan 2023 15:28:20 +0200
From: Charley Reed <alongweekend@gmail.com>
Subject: Reed 'em and weep: 3 June 2008

Tuesday 3 June 2008

Things I don't like: Having to Do the Right Thing

It's exam time; things have been pretty busy with studying and I haven't
had much time to have exciting stuff happen, let alone update. Don't hate
me, Diary. I've just finished writing Maths and it was not the most fun
I've ever had. I don't think I saw my arse, but it really was miles away
from being an easy paper.

Anyway, and even though I just finished the paper literally 15 minutes ago,
this one is important so I'm writing it before heading home to carry on
grafting. Tough, too -- I might actually cry a bit while I write this, and
not just because the maths paper was a real mofo. I hope not, the computer
lab here is not exactly private to have a bit of a weep, but here we go.

So I was home alone last week Thursday late morning, hitting the maths
pretty hard, folks at work and Mandy still at school, and also texting the
guys from class as an avoidance mechanism, when there was a knock at the
door. It was Ben. I invited him in, glad for the distraction and I haven't
seen him in more than a week. I made coffee, we headed up to my room and
shot the breeze for a bit. He's letting his hair grow, figures why not
since we're at varsity now and not subject to high school neatness rules,
and it's getting quite shaggy to go along with the goatee he's failing to
cultivate with it. I'm not convinced either will suit him, but of course I
wouldn't say that. I know his mom agrees with me and it has been a source
of some contention at home -- our moms are quite alike, and both are pretty
sure they know what's best for everyone, so... you know.

He wasn't quite there, though, if you follow me, seemed a little agitated
and not quite right. He's also writing exams, and I know he reckons he's
bombed at least one of the Comp Sci modules which are necessary for his
major and is taking some strain, and that's what I thought it was. So we
carry on, but I'm talking and he's kinda half-heartedly there and I'll
admit I was getting a little irritated that he's come over and distracting
me from my grafting and not really giving it stick, just sitting there
fidgeting and pointless.

Suddenly he looks me dead in the eye.

Not to claim any level of mysticism or psychic ability, but I went cold and
the hair on the back of my neck stood up. He tells me Mr Pancakes is sick.

Mr Pancakes is the old family dog, a quirky Corgi who has been there a
while, maybe 7 years. He followed on from Mr Hamilton, the family hamster
who was unfortunately disposed of by Mr Magic, the erstwhile family
cat. This is unofficial, by the way, both Ben and little Juliet think he
died of old age, but I overheard Ben's dad say something about it to my dad
a couple of years back and I haven't had the heart to tell him. There was a
Mr Cokey as well, who was also a cat which disappeared somewhere along the
way. I'm not sure why Juliet insists everyone gets a Mr name, but they all
do. Three days after The Tragedy of Mr Hamilton, they were heading down the
highway going somewhere when Ben's mom spots a puppy running into the
bushes alongside the road. No idea whose or how he got there, they rescued
him and voila -- Mr Pancakes, named of course by Ben's little sister. He's
been Ben's ever since; the family mutt, sure, but pretty much he's been
Ben's child and friend.

I express my concern about Mr Pancakes and ask what is wrong. Ben is a
little vague, won't look me in the eye, and rattles off a few things. He's
not eating and he's in some pain. From what little I know, it doesn't sound
good, but then again I'm not a vet. I ask what's going to happen.

For a while he's quiet, looking at his fingers. He looks at me again, then
away. "We have to put him to sleep," he says, and then the poor guy just
dissolves. He's trying to keep a brave face, I can tell, but he catches my
eye again and it's tickets. He just crumples and starts crying, hard. I
don't mean a few tears and an emotional catch in the throat, I mean full-on
bawling, for every incidence of injustice for every little kid in the
entire history of the world. The guy is completely inconsolable and I'm
completely fucking helpless. He's normally very measured, not the emotional
sort, so this is unusual. I am a soft touch for tears, though, and his
distress set me off and I started crying too. So there we are, 18 years
old, and crying like we're 6 again, for a long, long time.

Gads, I'm a little tearful now just typing this out.

It wasn't even cathartic -- we just cried, all secure in the knowledge that
it wasn't going to change anything and Mr Pancakes was still going to
die. I've known Ben since I was six and I suddenly know why he's here.

"When do you have to take him to the vet?" I can guess the answer. He went
to the vet yesterday and they got the news; the vet said to take him home
for one last night so they could say goodbye. It's today, and Ben has told
his family that he will do it, but Ben needs to be convinced that now is
the time and that Mr Pancakes deserves to go quickly and without distress,
that waiting any longer would be cruel. Ben knows all this, but Ben has
never been the leader and sometimes needs a firmer hand to nudge him to
make the decision, and maybe from now on, at least for a while when he's
feeling pissy, I'll be the guy who killed his dog. But it needs to be done,
and he knows I can deal with being the bastard for a bit. I'm pretty sure
his family have said their goodbyes and Ben has said he'd do the deed while
Juliet is at school -- she's only 13, after all -- and I'm the one who gets
to be moral support.

"I'll come with you. You just say when and we'll go." He cries more; lots
more. I leave to get him some tissues and a shot of Dad's good whiskey
while I compose myself for what comes next. This will not be a quick
process, I know that. I know that we'll get to his house and he'll have
every reason in the world why we should wait a bit and I'm going to have to
be a hard-arse and force his hand or it'll never get done. For the first
time, I understand why politicians are resistant to euthanasia, and I
realise that this is growing up and it's actually pretty shit.

He downs the whiskey in one gulp -- we've all done some growing up this
year -- and we go. At the house, he surprises me by getting straight to
it. I get to drive his mom's car, a pretty larney new Renault Megane, and
he's going to carry Mr Pancakes for the last time. I can see the dog isn't
well, he seems almost grateful to be going. Mr Pancakes has always like me,
and I get a lick on my hand and a few wags of his tail while he whimpers,
clearly in some distress, but this isn't about me. I'm getting ready to
play the bad guy, do my best impression of tough love and insist we get
going, but Ben surprises me by gently picking the pup up and heading
straight to the car, leaving me to lock up.

All the way there, just three minutes' drive, he's talking quietly to Mr
Pancakes, straight into his ear, chucking him under the chin and stroking
him all the while. I don't want to use a term like sweet nothings but
that's exactly what they were, and it struck me, admittedly
inappropriately, that Ben is going to make an amazing lover one day and,
more than that, an even more incredible dad.

I pull up outside the surgery and there's an open bay right in front of the
place. It's across from the big Dutch Reformed church; there's a
crèche on the opposite corner. The streets are quiet since it's a
work and school day for everyone except us. I wonder what will happen next,
whether Ben is going to be okay, and whether now the part I dread will
happen, but he passes me the dog and makes to go inside.

"He doesn't like it in there, the smell, so I want to make sure they can
take him right now. That okay?" He goes inside, and I'm gently cradling the
dog and trying to be brave and ensure I don't hurt him, talking a bit and
rubbing his head, his big ears which I really love. I get a lick on my own
ear for my trouble and a few tears leak out of me. Ben comes back out; with
a curt nod, it's time. He opens my door and I carefully pass Mr Pancakes
over, and in they go with little ceremony while I lock up the car. I manage
to get into the surgery to see Ben heading into a consultation room and I
follow him in. The vet is young; mid 20s, I'd guess, strong-featured and
pretty. On another day we'd be perving over her a bit, but today nobody's
heart is in it. She has a sad smile on her face and I get the feeling that
this sort of thing still stays with her and, although sensible and humane,
is not something she's comfortable doing, not yet. For no logical reason,
I'm grateful for that.

"Can you give us a minute?" Ben asks, and she nods and withdraws out the
back door into the bowels of the practice. I'm not sure he wants me to
stay, so I give the dog a pat, then a big kiss on his head, and tell Ben
I'll be outside and go out to the reception.

We're the only people there, me and the receptionist, an elderly lady who
just screams loving grandmother and who tells me that Mr Pancakes has been
coming there forever, and she remembers him as a pup coming for shots and
to get neutered a little later. I suspect she probably does and she's not
just looking at the file and making it up.  Time passes; I spend it looking
mostly out the window at nothing. The weather is kinda bleak, typical for
June, and following the script for a day like today. After about twenty
minutes, Ben comes out and without meeting anyone's eye walks to the
car. His body language, the dejection and sadness evident in the slump of
his shoulders, hits me hard. I follow him out, unsure of how to proceed and
wondering if I should say something which may be welcomed or may just be
viewed as a cliché. He's waiting at the driver's door -- guess my
work driving his mom's lush new car is over -- and I give him the keys and
climb in.

"Are you okay, Ben?"

He's quiet for a long time, then he nods. "I'm going to take you home, then
I'm going to drive to Sunset and watch the sea for a bit. Can you call my
mom and tell her everything? I'm just... I don't want to talk to the folks
just yet. Please ask her to give me a couple of hours before phoning." He
looks at me. "Yes, I'm fine to drive." And that's that.

At home, I don't want to leave him like that. But he's adamant, and
although not strong he's known to be stubborn; I will lose this battle if I
push it and just upset him further in the process, so I have to suck it up
and just let him go. He manages a quiet "thanks," and my choked out "I'm so
sorry, Ben" brings a fresh wetness to his eyes as he drives off.

He texted me later, thanking me again for everything, and we grabbed a cup
of coffee at The Chameleon Café on Sunday. He didn't talk much about
it all, and I guess I have to be fine with that. I think he'll be okay. I
hated it, though, having to be there. He didn't need me much in the end,
and damn am I glad I didn't need to force him along, but the complete
helplessness of it all hit me pretty hard. I don't like seeing my loved
ones in distress, mostly because I don't know how to handle it. Does it
make me a terrible person? I think it does. He's not the most hardcore of
us, Ben, but it will bug him to have lost it in front of me, or anyone. Al,
for all his machismo, is the one with his heart on his sleeve; I think he'd
be better about it all. Still, Ben's got some healing to do.

G'bye, Mr Pancakes.
-C