Before His Body Was Frozen

Before his body was frozen

in the vet’s freezer,

before they crammed him in a box

labeled, “Bono,” we were on our way

to Pikeville, Tennessee,

a little mountain town on

the other side of Chattanooga.

The ad on a website had snapshots,

too vague to see and the puppies

were too bunched up to tell them apart,

so we asked for more pictures, for the number

of males, only to receive a phone call from

the breeder who said,

“I’m new at this emailing pictures thing.”

But soon he succeeded. He made

it work. And all of this happened

before Bono died. We knew it

was coming, knew in our hearts

that we were sitting in the

backyard with Bono for the last time.

He had developed tumors

on his side, on his feet, on his back,

now one beneath his front leg,

so we knew the vet would give us

bad news at a scheduled appointment

later that day. My wife made the appointment

a couple of weeks prior, knowing

things were getting bad.

Bono was resting in the backyard

for the last time.

I knew my wife would mourn,

that she’d cry and hang her harp

in a tree by the Jordan, that she’d

miss her walking buddy

who pulled her around the neighborhood

with a slap-happy smile on his face,

tongue swinging within jaws, but that

had all ended a couple of weeks back.

He’d developed a limp

and hobbled down steps,

unable to get back up without

struggling when he lay down.

So I felt guilty for talking

about puppies in front of him

before the visit to the vet,

but I knew my wife would need a new one,

to get over Bono, and sometimes

the best thing to do is move on.

Bono was the kind of dog that

would want you to move on

and keep the boxer tradition

going in our family. He was

the third after Spike and Rommel.

Spike met a car and

Rommel went to live on a farm

after we moved to the city, but

for nine years Bono had been

with us and had become like

furniture that leaves an empty place

when taken, and we cried

at the vet, and I tried to hide my face

when tears rushed into the moment.

My wife was the first, and when she told him,

“You were such a good boy,”

that was all it took for me

to breakdown too.

After we said good-bye

and after the vet gave him morphine

to calm him down, we kissed him

and turned to leave, and by this time

he was resting on the metal-top table, so

we felt it would be best to sneak away—

out into the daylight with his collar

and leash in hand, while

darkness held him there. But when

the door opened, I heard him

stand.