There is so much grief
between the four of us
that we drive to the clinic
in two separate cars
When we get there
my parents struggle
to lift the golden bundle of childhood
from the backseat
Her paws hit the pavement
and she is staggering
towards the little white dog
across the parking lot
She stops to breathe
heavy breaths
full of effort
Dad is the first to cry
holding her leash while
the rest of us hold our breath
We are crammed into a room
too small to comfortably support
all the woe between us
I am holding front paws
face pressed to fur
and the doctor asks me
if this is my first time
as if to imply
death gets easier
if you let loss become routine
she asks if we want to burn the bandana too
she uses two needles
Dad leaves the room
Trevor swears he can still see her chest moving
Mom's eyes red like embers
head heavy on my arms
When I get home
I use an entire bottle of shampoo
on Russell but
the white fur on his chin
doesn't wash away
On November 15, my family and I put my childhood dog to sleep at the age of 14. It was such a heavy moment for everyone, and reminded me to appreciate all of the time I have with my own dog now. It is called "Whisper 2" because it is part of a series; I wrote another poem called "Whisper 1".