The Most Important Things

“He said there is nothing more that they could do, so we had to let her go, I’m sorry.”

“I thought about whatever was most important to me that day.”

“There is nothing more we can do, so you have to let her go. I’m sorry.” His voice attempted to be gentle; reassuring; sympathetic, even. But it didn’t help at all. Behind his voice and in his eyes you could see his boredom, his want to get this over with. If I wasn’t too busy sobbing, too busy thinking, I might’ve attacked him. There was only one thing on my mind, though, and it was liquid, chocolate brown eyes and silky, mottled fur. Whites, browns, blacks and greys all molding together in a beautiful tapestry, concealing a constant buzz of energy and rippling, corded muscles. All I could think about was a sloppy, wet pink tongue and rough-grained paws furtively seeking my attention and love. Memories sparked and ran across my vision, blinding me with tears. A beaming mother proudly presenting a tiny, yipping puppy, squirming to escape her grasp. An awkward, lanky dog sprinting across the house and hitting every piece of furniture in sight, slipping on the tiled floors. A mad dash across the yard in a fruitless chase of dreams. A foolhardy leap into a pond, chasing after ducks. A silly—and loud—encounter with a closed screen door at the sound of a name. Days and days spent in happy content with the gentle touch of a loving owner and softly drooping eyes as they slowly fell asleep. 10 years of a best friend, irreplaceable to me. The veterinarian desperately tried to console me, seeking to steer us towards a hate-filled bill, but I was in no mood for his antics. I only thought about whatever was most important to me that day. And any other day.