It Can't Be Me; It Has to Be Me

Did I tell you I finally got someone to stay in the kitchen with me the whole time while I cook dinner?  He does it without complaint and never leaves my side until dinner is plated, or in his case, bowled.

My dog, Gizmo, is the best.  These last couple of months that Blue Apron has gotten me cooking again, he has joined me every single time, planted his little bottom on the tile like a good boy, and gave me all the moral support I could ever ask for.  He smiles at me, and flashes me those pretty eyes while he does it, too.  A girl could swoon.

Here's the other thing:  he actually gets excited about the meal I serve up.  He gives me the kind of kudos that Cory used to offer:  physical affection in exchange for soup.  I cook to make him happy and he lavishes on me the appreciation I crave.  It's a beautiful thing.  It reminds me a little of when Cory was sick, too, now that Gizmo is failing.  There, I typed it.  He's failing.

The only thing I can really do to make Gizmo's day is cook for him, and I love to.  It very much reminds me of the steak dinner weekends when cooking for Cory was the only comfort I could provide.  When in doubt...feed.

I'm having the worst time knowing Gizmo won't be with us much longer.  I mean I get that he can't live forever; clocks stop.  I just don't want to be the one.  I really don't.

I don't want him to suffer, of course, but who am I to say that he is all done?  What if what he really wants, if he could tell me, would be one more day...one more car ride, one more cheeseburger, one more bite of Mom's chili, or even the right to die at home surrounded by his humans and his friends, all his familiar smells?

I mean, we don't load the elderly up and take them to be put down because we don't want them to suffer.  If Gizmo wants out of this, his goofy grin and tail that still wags hasn't convinced me yet.  To be fair, he is losing weight, his little face shrinking a bit and his spine becoming more pronounced when I pick him up.  But he's still Gizmo, and don't we all shrink as we age?

Hell, I don't know.  I just can't be the one.  Yet I'd have to be the one.  You see?  I can't be the one because I already feel like I sent Cory to her death on my stupid grocery store errand.  I can't kill her and the dog, too.  He looks at me the same way she used to:  complete trust.  But to the person out there that says, "Nicole, get a hold of yourself.  If he reaches that point, you'll know and you have to do something", I say, I know, I know.  And it couldn't be anyone else to take him there and hold him, either.  It'd have to be me.  I'm his human.  I'd have it no other way.