A Tribute to Rusty

 

Fondly remembered and deeply missed by all of us.

---

1858 hrs. 8th May 2000.
We were told to leave the room. It would be painless, Dr Edmund said. I hoped it wasn't for Rusty, but it was for us.

*

Ten years ago, an adorable and hyperactive puppy entered our lives. He wasn't exactly a pup though and seemed at least two years of age. Its owner, my father's colleague, did not want him anymore, as he was not house-trained and messed up his house. Rusty was left at the construction site office where my father worked.

Somehow, he was drawn to my father and hid timidly under his desk for the whole day. On the spur of the moment, my father brought him back and that was the start of ten years of joy, laughter and tears.

When my mum saw him, she thought that his brown patches were dirt from the construction site. Scrubbing for all she was worth, she couldn't get them out. We joked that they were like patches of rust and he was christened "Rusty".

*

I removed the collar and leash from Rusty one last time and left him in the hands of the veterinarian.

Stroking him one last time, we stepped out of the veterinarian's office with tears welling in our eyes. An inquisitive woman stopped Jo and asked if our dog had been put to sleep. I felt anger within - was it her business?!

My father and sister wept uncontrollably. My eyes were teary, but somehow, try as I might - I could not cry.

*

On the verge of waking from blissful sleep, I felt a warm, soft and furry lump against my leg.

"Rusty! Get down! What are you doing on my bed?!" The ball of fur ignored me and continued sleeping cosily in my blanket.

After some shoving, he reluctantly got down. I woke up again not long after, feeling very cold in my air-conditioned bedroom. My blanket had fallen to the floor, but tugging it back to my bed was met with some resistance.

Rusty was snuggled comfortably in the pile of cloth.

*

We were called back into the veterinarian's surgical room. There, Rusty lay on a thin pile of "The Straits Times" atop the cold, metal surgical table. A bloody mark on his leg indicated the area where the "medicine" had been injected. Medicine - wasn't that supposed to cure instead of kill?

His tongue hung out limply, but he was still breathing strongly. His big, dark eyes staring into space, explained a sympathetic attendant, was normal. All dogs died with their eyes open. Somehow, I knew Rusty could see us. There was discharge on his eyelids, and it seemed that he had cried too. Don't worry, Rusty, your pain will be over soon, I thought.

We continued patting and stroking Rusty's limp body, while the attendant made small talk with us.

His tongue was becoming purplish and the gentle heaving of his chest was barely noticeable. I placed my ear against his chest and could barely make out a faint heartbeat. His heart stopped at 1915 hrs.

"Goodbye, Rusty, you're in a better place now," I whispered. There must be a dog heaven somewhere; someplace where Rusty can frolic like he used to, without the pain he suffered.

The trip back home was a quiet one. We were told that after his cremation, we could collect his ashes three days later. My dad had said that he wanted to throw his ashes into the sea.

When we reached home, I took out the leash and collar from the car. "Throw it away," he said sadly. I didn't want to.

*

"Rusty! Want to go? Get your leash!"

A white ball of fur scrambled out from under the bed and came sprinting to the main door. Walks were the one thing he looked forward to. The other two were food and my father.

*

My mother was waiting for us at the main door with tears in her eyes. Though I was sad, I noticed that the newspapers which we layed on the floor for Rusty were gone. She had cleared them up.

I walked to the rubbish chute and threw away the leash.

Suddenly, it seemed that the entire house was very quiet. Perhaps the emptiness I felt was from within...