Pita Did Not Make It To Valentine's Day

“I want to be there” he said. “Absolutely.”

We sat down next to her, yet did not know if she knew we were there. They had already put a canulla in her right arm. The blue tape gave a pleasant contrast to her pale colours.

Greg kissed her nose, like he had done for 15 years. “Time to go, old girl” he whispered.

I was amazed how pragmatic this 15 year old boy was. No, now he suddenly looked like a man. He had experienced more separation than most 15 year olds. From the day he was born, life had started as a separation for him.

I looked at him. “Ready?”

“Yes,” he said. “And I think she is too.”

I looked at the veterinarian. She seemed more distressed than Greg. At least she was showing it.

“Go ahead,” I asked.

A few seconds later Pita’s heart stopped. Sixteen years of daily love and friendship ended with a few drops of chemical gently pushed into her collapsed vein.

We played with her ears for a few minutes. Then it was time to leave her. Greg approached her face gently, lifted her right ear and whispered.

When we were out into a snowy February afternoon, I asked Greg what he said to Pita.

“I asked her to say hi to Ani” he said, without looking at me.

February 12, 2008