Poodle stood at Retriever’s hospital room doorway, taking deep breaths to compose herself. She was relieved he’d pulled through the bypass surgery, but there was something else bothering her, like a flea.
You can do this, she told herself, and she entered the room.
She couldn’t help but shudder when she saw her husband splayed out on his back, the hospital gown barely covering his bulging stomach and the slim bed narrowly holding his girth. Squares of golden fur had been shaved from his body, replaced with tubes and a blood-speckled bandage stuck to his chest. An IV bag hung from a metal stand, delivering nutrients for his recovery. She put her handbag under the bedside table, pulled a chair by his side, and leaned over the railing to kiss his forehead. His eyes fluttered.
–
Where am I? Retriever thought as the room came into focus. A cold white fluorescent light hung directly above him and stung his eyes. He tried to piece together what he remembered, but his memory was as foggy as his eyesight.
Am I dead? he thought. Do all dogs go to heaven?
–
“Honey. Can you hear me?” Poodle whispered.
She placed her paw on top of his and noticed that his nails needed to be cut.
I wish he’d come with me to the nail salon to get these trimmed properly, she thought. I’m sure he only goes to the ten-dollar wash and groom at the mall to get out of grocery shopping.
–
I don’t think this is heaven, Retriever thought. For starters, these sheets are thin and rough, not like our pure cotton ones at home.
The anesthesia clouded any memory from earlier that day.
Let’s see, he thought. I was climbing the stairs at home and, wait, there was an ambulance. And, oh no. What’s that horrible smell? Am I in a hospital?
His nostrils tingled at the scent of the clinical-grade disinfectant, but his vision improved, and the cloudy figure beside him formed a dark silhouette of a round head with long, fluffy ears.
Thank god, he thought. Poodle is here.
–
Poodle noticed the distress on his face. “It’s okay,” she whispered to him. “You’re in the hospital.”
Poor thing, he has such an acute sense of smell, she thought. He won’t like it when I tell him he needs to be in here for a while.
She pulled her phone from her pocket to message the Boxers next door, who were watching their seven puppies, and saw a medley of sympathetic messages from family and friends. Too exhausted to read or respond to them, she only texted the Boxers: Visiting hours finish soon. I’ll give you money for pizzas. Thanks.
–
Retriever loathed the hospital room. The constraining railings on the bed, the plain beige walls, the intimidating panel of switches above his head, and the crumby old television that hung from the ceiling. Tubes pulled at every paw, and one poked up into his nose.
My throat feels so dry and sore, he thought. It’s like I’ve swallowed a tennis ball.
Retriever tried to speak. Instead, he made a gurgling noise that sounded like a growl. Clearing his throat, he tried again, but his voice was wispy, and full words failed him.
“Wahh,” he wheezed. “Wahhh…”
–
“What is it boy?” Poodle asked as she looked around the room. “Walk? Do you want to go for a walk? Not right now honey. You’ve had a heart attack and just come out of surgery.”
He has got to be kidding, she thought. Years of nearly no exercise, but on the day he has a heart attack, he wants to go walkies. I’ve been telling him to take better care of himself ever since the arrival of the puppies. It’s like he wants me to beg.
–
Retriever shook his head. Swallowing hard, he tried once more. “Wah-ter. Wah-ter.”
–
That makes more sense, Poodle thought as she reached for the jug of water on the bedside table. She poured him a glass and held it to his lips while she spoke to him.
“You scared me today. You were panting at the top of the stairs, then you fell and barked ‘my heart, my heart,’ and then you blacked out.” She gasped a spasmodic breath as she relived the day: calling the ambulance, moving his unconscious body, sending the puppies next door, waiting in silence for the paramedics to arrive, the screaming siren as they rode in the back of the ambulance, and then hours wondering whether he was still alive.
–
“Tha-nks,” Retriever huffed with a dopey smile. Through the pain of his stitches, his belly rumbled. “Foo-d. Is there food?”
–
Food, really? After what he’s put me through, she thought. No, “Thank you”. No, “I’m glad you’re here”. No, “I love you.” Is he seriously asking for something to eat? I warned him that something like this would happen if he didn’t lose weight.
She held back her frustration as her eyes met his.
“I’m sorry,” said Poodle, her voice icy. “I didn’t quite catch what you said.”
–
Why does she look so angry, Retriever thought. Perhaps she couldn’t hear my scratchy voice. I’ll try again with manners. Maybe that was the problem.
“C-ould you see if there’s any food, please?”
–
And here I was, under the impression that retrievers were intelligent, she thought. Instead of being grateful for being alive, he’s wrapped himself in his bedsheet, commanding me to fetch him a meal. If they bring him food today, he’s not getting any sweets. I don’t care if they’re serving Jell-O or those little tubs of pudding he likes. The diet starts now.
Poodle stood up and straightened Retriever’s bed sheet, so he wasn’t in such a tangle.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “They’re not serving dinner right now.”
–
Dinner? Retriever thought. He looked at the wall clock – nearly 8. Last he remembered, it was Saturday morning.
Poodle sat beside him with her lip curling up the edges.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
She is always okay, even-keeled in ways that I don’t understand, he thought. Prepares breakfast for the family and drops the pups at school every morning. Works all day and ensures dinner is on the table.
–
“Am I okay? My husband had a heart attack!” snarled Poodle.
Doesn’t he remember all those dinner parties where he stuffed himself full of food and writhed around in bed with a tummy ache? I’d try to control his portion size, only to watch him go to the pantry and help himself to treats throughout the day.
“How can you think of food now?”
–
Poodle’s tone made Retriever want to sit up and offer her a paw. He shuffled his butt to the middle of the bed and used the remote to elevate his head. As the bed whirred under his weight, he could feel the stitches in his chest tightening and stopped. He reached out, but she ignored him, staring at her lap.
Poodle is so good to me, he thought. I don’t tell her often enough how much I appreciate her. She never complains. It’s not in her temperament.
“Hey,” said Retriever. “I’ll be better in no time.”
–
Spending the day in a hospital will break a dog’s spirit. Poodle could hardly look at Retriever. His belly was so round that it looked like he belonged in the maternity ward rather than the intensive care unit.
He never listened to me, she thought.I sent him those social media posts about coronary disease being the number one killer of large dogs his age, but he never paid attention. Too busy responding to every cat meme with a growl-moji.
“You put yourself in the hospital,” she said.
–
“Put myself in the hospital?” Retriever yelped.
I may have put on a few pounds, but it’s mostly my winter coat, he thought. This isn’t my fault. Heart attacks are hereditary. Besides, when your time is up, your time is up. And, clearly, my time isn’t up yet. We should be celebrating with some drinks and those delicious little tubs of pudding they probably serve at mealtime.
“I just need those little treats at the end of the long day,” said Retriever. “They bring me joy.”
–
Poodle stared incredulously at Retriever. “Little treats? Do you think we’re talking about little treats? What about Christmas dinner when you ate five servings, including a string of sausages that gave you indigestion? Did that bring you, what did you call it, joy?”
Her mind ran through the innumerable other times he’d gorged himself. Thanksgiving dinner, when he vomited from the sheer volume of food he’d eaten. And last year’s Superbowl, where he ate an entire tray of spicy nachos, fell asleep in the second half, missed the game-winning touchdown, and had acid reflux for a week.
–
“Maybe I overdid it at Christmas,” Retriever admitted. “And my metabolism isn’t what it used to be.”
Poodle’s an excellent chef, he thought. Of course, I want seconds at every meal. Didn’t everyone? She wouldn’t want me to miss out on extra servings of her grandma’s special stuffing recipe.
–
“You never exercise,” said Poodle.
–
“It’s hard to find the time. I’d go for a run after work,” said Retriever, “but the doctor told me I have the rickety hips of an old German Shepherd.”
–
Poodle instinctively pulled away from Retriever in disbelief.
This is not the dog I married, she thought. Yes, our bodies have changed. I know that better than he does. I pushed out seven puppies, suckled them, and have the stretched nipples to prove it. What happened to the Retriever who used to happily chase a frisbee all afternoon?
“You could try swimming at the gym again?” Poodle suggested. “I could get you a free month using a different email address.”
–
Retriever appreciated her thriftiness, but the chlorine in the pool stripped away his coat’s natural oils. Whatever he’d save in gym fees, he’d likely spend on trips to the groomer at the mall.
“No,” he replied. “Thanks anyway.”
–
“Well, you have to do something!” Poodle barked. “Why don’t you talk to the Boxers next door? He trains at the gym every morning. You could be, I don’t know, gym buddies.”
Poodle’s mind drifted to her morning routine. At eight-fifteen each morning, Poodle watched through her kitchen window as Boxer pulled into his driveway and got out of his car wearing tight-fitting athleisure and dripping with sweat from the gym. He had such a nice tushy on him. How she’d love to give it a little sniff.
–
Retriever tucked his tail between his legs and turned away from Poodle.
Here we go, he thought. Bringing up Boxer next door again. It wasn’t fair. He’s retired, and his puppies have all left for college. Plus, a Boxer is naturally lean and muscly. Boxer – it’s in the name.
“I’m tired,” said Retriever through clenched teeth.
–
Poodle pushed her seat back and stood, swallowing hard to get the words out.
“I’ve had it Retriever. I’m not going through this again. You’re still in a critical state, and you’re digging yourself an early grave. I know what you’ll say, “When your time is up, blah, blah, blah.” It’s not good enough. Get your act together. For me. For the pup…” Poodle trailed off into sobs.
We’ve built a life together, she thought. I can’t imagine raising the puppies on my own.
When she pictured moving back to her parents for help, she cried harder.
Oh geez, Retriever thought. I can barely sit up. What does she want from me?
He tried to look over the edge of the bed where Poodle was wailing, but it made the stitches on his chest hurt to roll to the side. He helplessly lay on the gurney, unable to console his wife.
Poodle pulled a tissue from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes. She stood at his bedside as stoically as she could muster. “Promise me, you’ll make changes. Please?”
–
“Sure,” Retriever replied all too quickly. He knew he’d said the wrong thing as soon as he said it. When the single syllable hit Poodle’s ears, she bared her teeth.
–
“Sure?” she snapped back.
–
Retriever’s mind scrambled like a dog on a shiny floor for something to defuse the situation.
He wanted to tell her that he loved her. He was indebted to her in ways words couldn’t quantify. Not just for today but for who she was. Her spirit, her essence, her soul made his life better. Retriever held back a smile as he remembered the first time he gave her flowers. When he’d handed them to her, a bee flew out of the bouquet and nearly stung her on the nose. Poodle laughed and told him they were the most memorable flowers she had ever received. Reminding her of that story would have to wait for a better moment when they both felt better.
I’ll tell her tomorrow, he thought. Things will be better tomorrow.
“I’ll try anything,” said Retriever. “Perhaps there’s a drug? One of those new weight loss pills they’re always advertising.”
–
Poodle knew drugs weren’t the answer and crouched at the foot of the bed, hiding behind the clipboard of medical notes to collect her thoughts.
Her anger gave way to exasperation. He needed her unconditional support, but couldn’t he do a little for himself? Or was he too much of a creature of comfort, too old to learn new tricks?
She stood and walked to the side of his bed. His eyes held a sadness she’d never seen before. This was the moment for Poodle to say something reassuring. Perhaps, It will be okay, sweetie. Or, You can do it. Every word felt disingenuous.
Instead, they gazed into each other’s eyes in silence as an old Irish Wolf Hound entered the room holding a clipboard.
“This is the surgeon,” said Poodle.
–
For once, Retriever was happy to see a member of the medical profession. The surgeon had straggly black and white fur with a grave face. His haggard appearance gave him an air of authority that one could only hope for from their doctor.
“You’re fortunate, Retriever,” said the surgeon, pulling a pair of glasses from his pocket. Instead of wearing them, he waved them like a conductor as he spoke. “Your wife did a great job of getting you here as quickly as she did.”
“Thanks sweetie,” said Retriever as he looked across to Poodle. She didn’t turn to face him.
“Good as new, right doc?” asked Retriever.
The surgeon explained how he’d taken a blood vessel from Retriever’s leg and grafted it into his chest to allow the blood to flow to his heart. When the surgeon outlined Retriever’s treatment plan, Retriever’s tummy rumbled, and he stopped paying attention. The surgeon rambled on while Poodle took notes.
“Retriever,” said the surgeon. “You need to understand that your condition is still serious. This is very important.”
Retriever nodded. He tried to pay attention, but his belly wouldn’t let him. He just wanted to go home. He knew he’d fully recover with Poodle’s help as she continued taking notes.
As the Surgeon turned to leave, he told Retriever they’d likely keep him at the hospital for most of the week until he was stable. He also reminded them that visiting hours were over. Poodle thanked the surgeon. Retriever waved.
–
“Did you listen to any of that?” Poodle asked. As he looked back at her sheepishly, she kissed him on the forehead once more before grabbing her handbag. She didn’t want to be in the same room as her husband anymore.
“Rest up, honey,” she whispered as she headed to the door
–
When Poodle woke the following day, she saw a missed call from what looked like the hospital.
Probably Retriever calling to apologize, she thought.
Poodle made her morning coffee and stood in the house’s front window as the puppies scampered around upstairs to get ready for school. Annoyingly for Poodle, the puppies descended on the kitchen for breakfast before Boxer arrived.
Once she’d dropped the puppies at school, she returned to the hospital. As she strode through the waiting room, a nurse intercepted her and asked her to take a seat in an office until the surgeon arrived.
The same Irish Wolf Hound from the day before explained that Retriever had suffered bleeding within the brain as a complication from the surgery. He used terms like “hemorrhage” and “cranial pressure” while Poodle sat and listened. She numbly nodded and didn’t take notes. He was on life support and would never regain consciousness.
The surgeon asked if she had a power of attorney. Poodle asked to see Retriever.
The nurse escorted Poodle back to Retriever’s room. Poodle placed her paw across her mouth to hold in her pain.
More patches of fur had been shaved from his body, including the top of his head. Tiny black pieces of thread jutted from his body where the surgeon had stitched him back together. Retriever’s face was covered by a ventilator, pumping oxygen into his chest that rose and fell as though he were breathing on his own.
Can he feel me standing beside him, she thought. Can he smell me? I don’t know if I’m sorry or angry. I just feel empty.
The nurse stood behind Poodle and explained that it was her decision. She could take her time. Retriever was comfortable. The nurse handed Poodle a clipboard with a bundle of forms tucked under the clip and left.
Poodle pulled a chair by Retriever’s side and placed her paw on his.
I sat by his side all day and recounted our favorite stories one last time. At dinner parties, we would each tell our perspective of the story to our guests’ amusement. This time, I said his parts for him and laughed through my tears. How we met. Our first date and the first time he bought me a beautiful bunch of peonies. He looked so proud of himself for buying them until a bee flew out and landed on my nose. It didn’t bother me, but his face was one of pure panic.
When I ran out of stories, I decided I didn’t want the puppies to remember him this way. He was a fun, happy, and loving father. They didn’t deserve to be subjected to this memory.
She couldn’t help but smile when she thought of their puppies, who would also likely complain of the smell of the hospital. They’d got that from Retriever. He would live on through them.
Poodle unclipped the pen from the clipboard and signed the forms. She sat with Retriever and tried to recall any last stories.
The first time I introduced him to my friends, we were at a restaurant, and he spilled a bottle of wine. Instead of calling for the waiter, he lapped it off the table until nothing was left. My friends looked on in horror as I laughed out loud.
Poodle called for the nurse and handed her the clipboard. The nurse leafed through the pages. Poodle kissed Retriever and said goodbye. The nurse flicked off the switches above Retriever. The machines stopped beeping. The room was silent.
As Poodle went to leave, she noticed an empty tub of pudding in the trash by Retriever’s bed. She paused, stared at the item, and took a deep breath. Poodle composed herself and left to pick up the puppies.