Mocha Was Gone.
I arrived at my parents’ house in time to say goodbye to Anne – and everyone – as they headed out for the airport. They all said goodbye to the dog, too. Then they all headed out, leaving me alone in my parents’ house for the first time in a very long time. I plopped myself down on the couch which was extremely clean, unlike my disgusting sofabed.
Mocha, the beloved short-legged brown poodle we’d had since I was 10, flopped down to nap on the floor beside me. Mocha was breathing heavily, panting even, so I turned up the air conditioning. It was August and, even in Pittsburgh, it could get quite hot.
I petted Mocha for a little while but she didn’t even bother to raise her head. She’s really starting to get old, I thought. When I’d been there for dinner only a week prior, she’d been her usual puppy-like self.
Bored already, I moved to a different couch. Imagine having two couches, I thought. It had been so long since I’d lived with my parents, I’d almost forgotten what it was like to be comfortable. Just barely sober, I was already starting to garner some gratitude for such things.
Mocha walked over to where I was sitting in the other room, and flopped down again, still panting. I patted her on the head. Then I stared out the window.
Outside, I saw something move near the bushes in the backyard. It was tiny, like a pine cone, but it was moving around under the bush. I couldn’t figure it out.
I sat up and looked closer: it’s a bird! A baby bird had fallen from its nest in that bush, a nest I’d never noticed before, and it was flopping around on the ground, unable to fly.
I ran to the basement and put on work gloves, then raced out the back door. I found the baby bird, barely old enough to open its eyes. I carefully lifted it from the ground and put it back in its nest. I looked around for Mama Bird, who was nowhere to be found, so I headed inside to watch for her from the window.
When I went back upstairs, Mocha was lying on the floor where she’d been when I left, but she wasn’t panting anymore. In fact, Mocha wasn’t breathing at all.
I got down on the floor and checked – no no no no NO! – for any kind of movement. She was completely still. I put my head on her fur, hoping to hear a heartbeat, but Mocha was gone.
I burst into tears.
I didn’t know what to do, so I called a grown-up.
Aunt Joy, who had raised Mocha for the first two years of her life, stopped whatever she’d been doing and raced to my parents’ house to be with me. She stayed with me for hours, letting me cry, crying with me. And when my family came home from the airport, they understood immediately what had happened.
I couldn’t help her, I thought. It wasn’t my fault.
But it felt like my fault; I should have done something.
I couldn’t talk. We all just hugged and cried. We wrapped Mocha in her favorite blanket. We stood sobbing together as my dad dug the hole, and we buried the shell of our beloved pet in the ground. Together, we mourned until crying became mundane.
Then we cried some more.
I forgot to check on the baby bird. Later, I went back to my apartment and cried for days.
I did not drink.