The Last Journey

2003 - Tony Stevens

"Come on Mum. We must go." Slowly I came out of the house and down the steps. They were both standing in the driveway waiting for me, my daughter having agreed to come with us. We got in the car and started on that last journey.

As I drove memories came welling back like long forgotten tears from nearly fifty years ago. Then I had the self-same emotions. I, as a ten year old girl, tearfully bade goodbye to my dog Lassie as my father prepared to take her on her final run to the Vets'. Lassie was the family pet, although I as a child considered her to be my Lassie, but the decision to have her put to sleep was my parents', the grief was shared, but I bore none of the responsibility. This time though it was my sole responsibility; now it was my Rover alone and I must undertake this final duty myself. We had been everywhere together, to the shops, for runs in the country, on holidays. We had been inseparable, but now it was over, now I would be returning alone.

Whilst many people might say that for a grown woman there could be no comparison between the two occasions, I cannot agree. We had been together for seventeen years, and he had always served me faithfully. Such people could laugh and say. "They're not human. Why treat them as if they are?" If one does not understand, no explanation will convince; if they do, none is needed.

As we drove I could hear muffled whines from the back of the car and tried vainly to ignore them. He had had a good life but in all kindness the time had come to part. Ever since he was three I had taken him for regular check-ups, apart from any other visits during the course of the year for the odd patching up for the scrapes he inevitably got in. On the previous years visit I had been told his days were numbered. One always hopes against hope that the experts are wrong, but during that last year even I could see the deterioration that was taking place. His once glossy brown coat now dimmed with age, 'Like us all' I thought looking in the car mirror at my own greying hair, itself once brown. This only re-enforced the realisation that we must part.

All too soon we arrived. We got out. My daughter stayed with him outside, whilst I went to the reception area. I gave all the details. Then on my return, accompanied by the receptionist, I saw a little dark pool on the ground beneath him. This had never happened before. It was as if he now sensed that the end was here. The receptionist pointed to a driveway leading to the rear of the building and offered to take him from me. I asked if I, rather than a stranger, could do this one last act, and she agreed. As we left my daughter grasped my hand. "Mum, I know how you feel now. But, you'll see, you will have another car."