By Daniel Hagan

Myra’s text message asks if I’ll drive up there, if I’ll confirm what she already suspects: that it’s time. Ginger has reportedly stopped eating, and can barely stand long enough to piddle on the backyard lawn. My heart sinks with ambivalence at the sight of the notification. I want to help, I really do, despite the fact that Myra and I haven’t spoken these last three weeks. Our mutual decision to take a break felt like a precursor for something more permanent – frankly, I’m surprised to be hearing from her this soon. 

Or maybe I just don’t want to admit that Ginger is this sick. At this point, she is my baby every bit as much as she is Myra’s. The three of us have spent practically every weekend of the past half decade together. Ginger has rested her head on the couch while Myra and I nibble on pad Thai, silently pleading for a bite with those big amber eyes. She has chased tennis balls into the depths of the American River, her coat tinged gold as she emerges from the water into late afternoon’s glow. Many winter evenings she has bunkered at the foot of the bed, curled tightly, gleaning the warmth from my feet next to Myra’s. Most recently she has napped on the kitchen floor, occasionally lifting an ear to pick up phrases like “long-term commitment” and “coping mechanisms” and “couples therapy.” I wonder if these concepts feel as foreign to her as they do to me. If she knows she’s the reason I’ve hung around this long. 

Reluctantly, I manage to craft a response to Myra. Without traffic I could be at her door in ninety minutes. 

Myra answers my knock in her pajamas, a sliver of toned tummy peeking from the bottom of her shirt, and I realize how long it’s been since I’ve touched her body. I ask where Ginger is, eventually finding her sprawled in front of the television. Oh how I’ve missed my girl. Her tail wags limply as I crouch beside her, but she does not rise to greet me the way she used to. I notice the bony outline of ribs poking through her skin – Myra wasn’t exaggerating about the lack of appetite. Even her eyes, once soulful and pure, have lost their spark.   

Lumps gather in my throat as I suddenly reflect on a memory from two summers ago. A rare Sacramento rainstorm had blown through Myra’s neighborhood that evening, rattling the windows and walls with thunderous crackle. Ginger sprinted erratically from one end of the house to the other, shrieking her petrified whimpers into the night. I remember Myra laughing, something she did quite often then, as she told me about the “Thunder Shirt”: a product that claimed to quell canine anxiety. Whoever invented it had never met a creature as anxious as Ginger. I hovered over her with my jacket, wrapping her in my embrace until the trembling gradually subsided. That was the night Myra dubbed me Ginger’s “Thunder Daddy.” 

I glance down at my bony baby’s sparkless eyes, then back at Myra. It’s time. We agree we’ll take Ginger to the clinic first thing in the morning. I’m beginning to stand up when I notice a yellow puddle soaking the rug near her hind legs. 

Myra suggests one last bath. This time Ginger can go in the tub, hot water serving as a final luxury following countless weekends of rinsing her with the garden hose. Several minutes of gentle washing soothes her into a trance, the staccato of her panting settles into even rhythm.

Once the bathing is finished, Myra unearths her pink hair dryer from beneath the bathroom sink. Throughout our relationship she has used this tool when getting ready for special occasions: anniversaries, birthday dinners, her cousin’s wedding where she drank too many vodka sodas and vomited on the hotel mattress. Tonight Myra oscillates the hair device over Ginger’s fur until it dries.  

I hoist Ginger out of the tub, laying her down on some couch cushions, trying to cherish every remaining moment. Myra reaches for a blanket and drapes it over our girl, tears swelling in the corners of her eyes. I rest my hand on her back in solidarity; I recognize the impossibility of our situation. Simultaneously, we lean in and place our lips on Ginger’s forehead. We whisper to her, reassuring her the pain will be over soon. That we’ll always love her. 

*

I awake to Myra nudging my shoulder. 

Ginger’s gone. 

Gone? 

Gone. 

I stumble toward the living room in disbelief. 

She lays motionless on the cushions. Never have I seen her look so peaceful.

A parting gift, sparing us that agonizing vet visit.  

I drive back to the Bay now that it’s over. 

Another text from Myra arrives as I park in front of my apartment. How lucky Ginger was to have me as her Thunder Daddy, that I’d sincerely made her golden years so special. And how there was a reason she waited for me before she went to heaven: because she loved and treasured me too. My throat emits a noise I didn’t realize it was capable of producing. 

Many months later we are catching up at a bistro in Midtown. Myra says she has some things to return to me, mostly clothes. We greet each other with a hug; it’s genuinely good to see her. She shares that she has stopped drinking, replacing this habit with morning jogs. I dare not ask if she is seeing someone new – truthfully, I don’t want to know. Over Caesar salads and iced teas we stick to the safe topics. How her folks are doing, how work is going. We are not compelled to dwell on the past. We understand what we’ve been through. 

Five years treading in and out of intimacy have faded. 

The shared meals, the drunken arguments. 

The laughter. 

The time we kissed our beloved pup goodnight and tucked her into the afterlife. 

                                                                     *   *   *

Daniel Hagan grew up in Northern California, and is a graduate of the creative writing program at Marin School of the Arts. Passionate as both a creator and consumer of short, flash, and micro fiction, his stories often focus on finding magic in the mundane. Daniel currently works as a psychotherapist in the San Francisco Bay Area, where he lives with his girlfriend, cat, and a community of tropical fish.