Mike was in the bow of the open Steigercraft as John slowly guided it south on the Patchogue River. It was almost noon, nearly five hours later than they normally began their day. The skies were clear and the breeze was steady, out of the west. It was a perfect day for-clamming, only today there would be no clamming for Mike and John. There was a matter of some unfinished business. Business that started earlier that morning.
Yesterday John decided to dissolve the partnership Mike and he made fifteen years ago. It was an emotional decision he struggled with for days. His wife and closest friends all agreed it was a proper one.
It was just happenstance, Mike was a terrier mongrel John picked up from Bide-a-Wee as a Christmas present for his wife.
The following Spring, out of curiosity, John took Mike on the boat with him for companionship while he earned his pay as a clammer. Mike's job as assistant skipper was to bark at seagulls, bask in the sunshine, and sleep while being rocked by the gentle swells of the bay. It was a job he dutifully fulfilled for fifteen years.
During the past year, Mike's hearing failed to the point where he could only detect the sharpest whistle. The sudden growl of the outboard engine being started rarely disturbed him. His eyes became clouded with cataracts and the early stages of arthritis settled into his hindquarters. The final indignity occurred when he let loose his urine in the boat, something he had never done.
John eased the boat past the Sandspit. Opening up the throttle, he headed the boat out into Great South Bay as Mike lay silently in the bow. For the first time in fifteen years he wasn't at his position, face into the wind, that sensation of rapid movement all dogs seem to enjoy. John piloted the boat to a secluded spot in the bay and shut off the engine, letting the boat rock in the waves. He went to the bow and sat on the deck next to Mike. He drew up his knees and dropped his head fearing he was going to be sick. "If this is such a great act of friendship, why do I feel so miserable," he muttered.
He patted Mike and recalled'the morning's events. He had called the vet to make the appointment to have Mike put to sleep. The receptionist suggested bringing in Mike as soon as possible.
As in, why prolong the agony? He thought. "Would you prefer to come to the rear entrance?" He would.
"Would you prefer to leave the animal with us, then return home and wait for our call?"
He wouldn't. He preferred to be there.
"Will you be leaving the body for cremation?"
He won't because there was still the matter of some unfinished business.
John reached into his shirt pocket for a cigarette, lit it, and absently threw the match over the side. He took a deep drag then slowly exhaled the smoke. "What can I expect?" he
remembered asking the doctor.
"
Basically, I'm going to give him an overdose of a strong sedative," came the reply. " He'll
simply close his eyes and in a matter of seconds go to sleep."
John lifted Mike onto the stainless steel table and watched as the doctor prepared the
syringe. The doctor nodded to John. John lovingly hugged Mike and whispered to him, "Don't fight it, Mikey. You've been so tired for so darn long it's time to go to sleep .. It's time to go to sleep, old pal. It's time to ... "
Mike went limp in John's arms. The doctor helped John lay Mike on his side. Mike drew a few· shallow breaths, then was completely still. The doctor placed a stethoscope on Mike's chest and listened. He then stated with genuine compassion, "You're dog is gone."
John glanced at his cigarette and saw the ash was over an inch long. He flicked it off and took another drag.
"Would you like the body placed inside a plastic bag?"
He wouldn't. He had a blanket in his truck.
Mike now lay wrapped in the blanket. All the corners were tied off, except one. John stood
up, flicked away the cigarette and looked down at the blanket, positive he could make out
Mike's shape underneath. "Everyone was right," he rasped. "You were old ... sick ... I wasn't doing you any huge favor letting you live like that. It was the best thing to do, right?"
John took a deep breath and released a miserable sigh. "But you want to know what they
don't know? his voice trailing off into a painful whisper. "They don't know about the guilt. This incredible feeling of guilt. Some friend I turned out to be, huh, Mikey? Yes sir, good ol' John. When I helped you into the truck this morning, you thought we were going clamming. But did I take you clamming? Hell no. Faithful master John takes you to meet the business end of a hypodermic needle. Little did you know, huh, Mikey? Isn't that what they always say? What you don't know can't hurt you?
John's vision blurred as tears filled his eyes. "Well what about me? It sure as hell hurts me. For fifteen years you followed me ... trusted me ... knowing it would be fun ... knowing it would be safe."
The tears started flowing and John made no attempt to stop them. They filled his nose. He
sharply inhaled them, deared them from his throat and spat them into the bay. "You trust me to take care of you and what do I do? I take you off to die."
John knelt next to Mike's body and tenderly rubbed its side. "Oh, yeah. It hurts, Mikey. It
hurts to think you unconditionally followed me to your death. I can't believe how much this
hurts."
John reached into the boat's forward compartment and withdrew a cinderblock he used as a
makeshift anchor. "Right now my only bit of comfort is knowing that even though I had you put to sleep, I didn't leave you there with strangers. I didn't leave you there to be crammed into an oven"
The words would no longer come. John placed the cinderblock into the open end of the
blanket and tied it off. He took a quick look around and saw he was quite alone. "I don't want anybody seeing us, old pal. Those environmental boys probably wouldn't understand this one bit."
John lifted the bundle and placed it on the gunwale. "Since you loved the water so much, I
thought you'd appreciate this. Rest in peace, Mikey." He pushed the bundle overboard and it
quickly sank in a swirl of bubbles.
John went to the console and started the engine. He brought the boat around in a tight arc
and tried to offer another goodbye. His words caught in a painful lump in his throat. He
slammed the throttle forward and the boat sped away. Looking back over his shoulder to where Mike now rested, he found the strength to yell over the engine's roar. "Goodbye, Mike! I love you! I'll always love you!"
He turned his head toward the bow. Wide open he went, flat out over the water, the wind
whipping his hair and drying his tears.
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