by James Bailey

Created on: February 15, 2011

I looked down at Mishka, remembering the puppy I once knew, a playful bundle of fur that bounded around my house looking for mischief to create. I remembered the long walks through the park and the playful games of tug and war we had. I remembered his wagging tail and excited face whenever I came home, always happy to see me. Stroking his soft fur I looked into his eyes, a smile on my tear streaked face.

“It’s okay boy.” I said.

He knew it wasn’t, I could see it in his eyes. The cancer had spread throughout his body, his once shiny silver fur now dull, his eyes glazed over from the pain medication. Despite this, he tried to shuffled forward on the table to try and get closer to me. I leant over and put my head against his, crying into his fur.

I heard a knock on the door and the vet promptly entered holding a tray, Michael was his name, a solemn expression was on his face. I referred to him by name now after the many visits over the past few months, we both knew this was to be the last.

“Hello John. I won’t bother asking how you are.” Michael said, a faint smile on his lips.

I returned his weak smile, tears still staining my cheeks. “Not much point, no.” I replied. I didn’t bother with the usual small talk or banter we usually exchanged.

I looked at Mishka again, my boy was struggling to keep his eyes open, the drugs and cancer had robbed him of his strength and energy. He was still trying to stay awake though, he never did want to miss anything. I stroked his head, smiling at him, his tail wagged slowly.

“Is it time now?” I asked, my voice choking up as the words came out. Words I had been dreading for weeks.

“It is, John. You don’t have to be here for this.” Michael said softly, recognising my pain.

“I do.” I said firmly. “Mishka has been there for me for his whole life. I won’t leave him alone now.”

“Fair enough.” Michael said. He moved towards his desk and put his tray down, taking a syringe from the tray. Fresh tears ran down my cheeks, I couldn’t believe it was actually happening.

Michael approached the table syringe in hand. I looked down at Mishka, his eyes were open staring at me. I hoped he knew he was going to a better place soon, free from pain, where he could walk, run and play again. Eat what he liked and have an abundance of shoes to destroy.

I stroked his fur and kissed the top of his head. “It’s going to

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